


Fallout

by allonsys_girl



Series: Love is a Much More Vicious Motivator [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst and Porn, Arguing, Blow Jobs, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Come Swallowing, Comeplay, Declarations Of Love, First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Hand Jobs, His Last Vow Spoilers, Infidelity, M/M, Masturbation, Not Canon Compliant, POV Third Person, Post-His Last Vow, non-canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-23
Updated: 2014-03-23
Packaged: 2018-01-16 18:22:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 37,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1357366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allonsys_girl/pseuds/allonsys_girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the events of His Last Vow, Sherlock and John are struggling to understand their relationship. In the midst of that, Mycroft and Sherlock enlist the help of Victor Trevor to assist in the worldwide search for Moriarty, and things get complicated fast.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Distance

**Author's Note:**

> Mary is NOT pregnant in this fic, because I honestly just didn't want to deal with the repercussions from that. I wanted to be able to focus on the relationships without the pregnancy issue. Also, Sherlock mentions the tarmac scene, and I make it clear he did crack a joke, but I don't say what the joke was. We can assume they weren't talking baby names, since Mary isn't pregnant, but that scene isn't significantly changed in my head - basically just a different joke. 
> 
> A HUGE THANKS to my beta, Brit picker, editor, collaborator, cheerleader, and psychologist, tumblr pal cantpronounce. She seriously held my hand through this whole process, gave me SO much fantastic advice, and made this so much better than it would have been without her. (She also inspired me to write a Victor story in the first place.)
> 
> And my head canon is that Victor is Idris Elba. So...yeah. Yum.

John Watson couldn’t sit still. 

“You’re driving me mad, John. If you can’t stop fidgeting, just go for a walk or something.” Mary turned another page of her novel, without looking at him, and patted his hand affectionately. 

“Yeah. You know, I think I will.” John went to push up off the couch, reconsidered, and stopped halfway. “Sure you don’t mind? I’m just restless.”

“Not at all. Be careful. Never know who’s out there.” Mary’s voice was casual, but John flinched involuntarily as he stretched his stiff legs. 

Yeah, people like you, came the thought, unbidden and unwelcome. John shut his eyes and tried to force that sentence out of his mind, but it wouldn’t go. He sighed and got up. “Alright. I’m off. I’ll have my phone if you need me.”

Mary smiled and waved at him, turned her eyes back to her book. Their eyes met, and John smiled at her, wishing his feelings for her were simple, the way they used to be. They stood that way for a moment, then John cleared his throat, turned away and grabbed his jacket. 

He knew where he was going. 

***

Sherlock Holmes was looking out of the window of 221B Baker Street, violin bow dangling loosely in his fingers, tapping his calf with it. His eyes swept over the deserted street. The minute he caught a movement out of the corner of his eye, he recognized the familiar stride, and a crooked smile crept onto his lips. “Hullo, John.” He murmured to himself. 

“What was that, Sherlock?” Mycroft Holmes was seated at the kitchen table, a mess of official papers and maps laid out in front of him, photos and more maps pinned into the walls, typing away furiously on his laptop. Jim Moriarty’s face glowered at him from almost every single picture. 

“John is here.” Sherlock tried to keep his voice neutral, but Mycroft would hear the tenuous note of joy in his tone. He couldn’t help it. He was already drifting across the sitting room, unlocking the door to the flat. In the past, the door had always been left unlocked, but since the apparent return of Jim Moriarty, Sherlock tended to prefer a bit of advance warning if someone was entering the flat. 

He didn’t want John to feel anything had changed, however. So he quickly unlocked the door, even though he knew John still had a key. Not that he used it often. Sherlock’s eyes moved to John’s chair, which currently had stacks of newspapers and an empty crisps bag in it. Sherlock scooped up the mess and deposited it on the already cluttered desk. 

“Lovely. I’m waiting with baited breath.” Mycroft rolled his eyes and sifted through a pile of papers, looking for a particular report he’d misplaced hours before. “I’m sure he’ll have so much to add.”

“Shut up, Mycroft.” Sherlock shot Mycroft his most venomous look, as he heard the front door click open downstairs. Mycroft shook his head, but his phone buzzed before he could say anything, and then he was absorbed in a text. 

Look busy, Sherlock. Mustn’t look as if you were waiting for him. Which I actually wasn’t, Sherlock thought to himself. He grabbed a stack of reports from MI6 that he’d already read twice, and settled in his chair, John’s footsteps coming up the stairs. He crossed his legs, sitting back, trying to look relaxed. 

Please don’t knock, John. Please don’t act like this isn’t still your home. Sherlock couldn’t help these strange thoughts whenever John graced him with his presence these days. He knew Baker Street WASN’T John’s home anymore, but the thought of either of them actually acknowledging that made Sherlock feel like he was choking on something poisonous. 

John didn’t knock. He swung the door open, eyes falling immediately on Sherlock. Sherlock looked up, feigning surprise. John looked tense, eyes tired and swollen (hadn’t been sleeping well), wrinkles a bit deeper (dehydrated), clothes the same ones he’d worn the day before (not keeping up on laundry), but he was smiling broadly at Sherlock and his blue eyes were twinkling. 

Sherlock rose out of his chair, forgetting the reports that were on his lap. They slid to the floor, and Sherlock didn’t bother to pick them up. He fought the lump of emotion rising in his chest. He hadn’t seen John for weeks, and several of his texts had gone unanswered. They both stood there, grinning at each other like complete fools. 

Before either one of them could open their mouths to speak, Mycroft’s voice sang out from the kitchen. “Hello, John.”

John’s face fell a little. He had wanted to see Sherlock on their own, just the two of them. It had to be expected that Mycroft would be there, however. They were working around the clock on what Sherlock had deemed, somewhat sardonically, The Moriarty Conundrum. The conundrum being how exactly one survives shooting oneself in the mouth, and subsequently being burned. The body recovered from the roof of St. Bart’s had been Jim Moriarty’s, had been subjected to DNA testing to be certain, and had been cremated. Mycroft’s people were all being questioned, since records had been faked, and a body switch had clearly been made, which undoubtedly required inside help. 

“Hello, Mycroft.” John called. Then, more softly, blue eyes brightening, “Hello, Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s eyes crinkled, laugh lines deepening. “Hello, John. Late for you to be dropping by.” 

John sighed. With a bit of heaviness, Sherlock thought. “Yeah. Alright?”

“Of course. You’re always welcome here, whatever the time of day. How is Mary?” And now they’d gotten to the part of the conversation that they always had to have, but that always created a distance between them, an awkwardness. Sherlock could hear how his voice changed when he said Mary’s name, but he had remarkably little control over it. And John’s eyes always clouded a bit, shifted away from Sherlock’s. Mary was an obstacle between them, there was no doubt.

“She’s fine. She was...going to bed when I left. She knows where I am.” John pressed his lips together, mouth twitching into a brief smile. Sherlock knew he was lying. Why would he specifically say Mary knew where he was, when Sherlock hadn’t asked that at all? He wasn’t sure exactly what, but something was off. 

Mycroft huffed loudly in the kitchen. “Well, if you lovebirds are done catching up, we are actually doing something rather important. Sherlock, you know we need to finish this tonight.”

John walked over to the kitchen table, Sherlock’s eyes following him. He peered over Mycroft’s shoulder. “Tracing Moriarty’s movements the last two years? Isn’t that almost pure speculation? Since you thought he was dead all this time and had no one looking out for him?”

Mycroft glared, and a familiar pride rose in Sherlock’s chest. John was the only person he’d ever met that wasn’t intimidated by Mycroft, and it always made him laugh. He strode into the kitchen and began filling the kettle. “Tea, John?”

“Course. Ta.” John was looking through the MI6 reports on the table, his hip cocked against the edge of the table, jeans pulled taut across his groin, where there was a rather larger than typical bulge. Sherlock swallowed, and shook his head. He couldn’t stop himself from noticing these things about John now, and he wished desperately that he could. It was so pointless. If there’d ever been a window of opportunity, Sherlock had missed it long ago. 

He slammed the kettle down on the cooktop rather harder than he meant to, and both John and Mycroft jumped and looked at him. 

“Sorry. Slipped out of my hand.” Mycroft looked annoyed and John grinned, and Sherlock nearly blushed. Damn. 

“What can I do to help?” John addressed both Mycroft and Sherlock, a sheaf of papers clutched in his hand. 

“Go home.” Mycroft said. “You’re not on this one, John. It’s nothing to do with you.”

“It’s to do with Sherlock, so it’s to do with me.” John furrowed his brow at Mycroft, his voice taking on an edge of irritation. “And if you’ve forgotten, Mycroft, Moriarty did try to murder me twice. It’s rather to do with me, as well.” 

“John, Sherlock and I have this well in hand, we don’t need your...assistance. It’s just not your business.” Sherlock wasn’t clear why Mycroft’s opinion of John had changed so drastically since the Sherlock had returned to London, but it definitely had. Even before the events at Appledore, Sherlock’s shooting of Magnussen, and the fallout from that, Mycroft was considerably colder towards John than he’d been previously. Sherlock had truly been surprised when Mycroft refused to attend the wedding. He’d always thought Mycroft got on well with John, at least as well as Mycroft got on with anyone. 

“Oi! Sherlock is my best friend. Since when is someone’s best friend not their business? What the fuck, Mycroft?” There was colour rising in John’s face, his fingers clenching around the papers, making them crinkle and bend. His temper was shorter than ever recently.

“Oh, both of you, stop. Mycroft, John can stay and help as long as he wants. John, stop engaging him. You should know he’ll never shut it as long as someone’s still talking back to him.” Sherlock caught John’s eye, and they both giggled. 

Mycroft sighed loudly and turned away. “Fine. I swear, dealing with you two is like handing high security clearance to a couple a teenagers. You never take anything seriously. John, stay and be useless as long as you like.”

“I could say the same to you, Mycroft. But I’m too fucking polite.” John gave Mycroft a saccharine smile, and winked at Sherlock.

Sherlock winked back, and they dissolved into laughter again as the kettle started whistling. It felt, for a moment, as if nothing had changed.

“Come on, then, Sherlock. Pour us some tea, and catch me up. I feel completely out of the loop.” John leaned back against the kitchen counter, and crossed his arms over his chest. A considerably thinner chest, Sherlock realised, than it had been a few weeks previous. 

“Have you lost weight, John? You have. You’ve lost twelve pounds since the last time I saw you.” Sherlock realised he sounded accusatory.

John shrugged. “Maybe. I don’t know. I haven’t been trying to - just not sleeping very well. I’ve been taking a lot of walks. I’m not really hungry often. I guess maybe I have dropped a few.” 

Sherlock pushed a cup of tea into his hands. “You’ve dropped close to a stone in three weeks. You should eat more.”

John snorted out a laugh and looked up at Sherlock bemusedly. “You’re one to talk, Mr I-eat-on-Wednesdays.”

“Fair enough. Come in the sitting room and I’ll explain to you what’s going on with Moriarty.” 

They shuffled into the sitting room together, as they had so many hundreds of times in the last six years. In this room, they’d solved murders, watched hours of crap telly, drunk thousands of cups of tea, had screaming rows with each other, laughed until their ribs felt like they were cracking, almost lost each other once or twice, and found each other again. 

The room itself seethed with who they were. It was a messy, ill-defined space, furniture in no particular arrangement, busy and cluttered. Both of them had felt more than a few times that their relationship was pretty much a disaster, but much like the room, it was also comforting, familiar, and necessary. They simply couldn’t bear to be apart for too long, not matter how they drove each other mental a lot of the time. There was still a lot of John in this room, though he hadn’t lived here for three years.

They took their chairs, and Sherlock watched John close his eyes briefly as his hands made contact with those worn chair arms. Then he opened them, fixed them on Sherlock, and took a sip of tea. “Okay, Sherlock. Tell me what’s going on, so I can help you. I want to help.” 

Sherlock hesitated, trying to determine what, if anything, he should leave out. He met John’s eyes, his steady, confident blue eyes, waiting patiently for Sherlock to talk to him like they used to, and decided, nothing. I can leave nothing out...John’s been lied to enough for ten lifetimes, and mostly by me, he thought. And Mary. Sherlock tilted his head, trying to let that thought slip away. 

“Sherlock. You’re off in space, mate.” John furrowed his brow at that, as he always did. Sherlock hated it. He hated being called ‘mate’ by anyone, really, but especially by John. It boxed their relationship into a category that Sherlock didn’t know how to function in, a world of blokes and football and pubs. A world that didn’t have anything to do with them, what they were. John, always trying to define them into something he could understand.

“Sorry. Yes. Well, then.” Sherlock templed his hands together, trying to gather his thoughts. He could almost HEAR Mycroft rolling his eyes. “Alright then. It comes to this. I still have no idea how Moriarty survived the gunshot wound I witnessed on the roof of St. Bart’s. And Mycroft has no idea how he faked a body, twisted DNA results, and managed to swap his body with a double before the cremation. But leaving that for the moment, it appears he absolutely IS alive, and we’ve been able to tentatively link him to crimes all through Europe for the last three years. I say tentatively, because while the crimes certainly fit his style, and are unsolved, with no suspects, there’s absolutely no proof of him having anything to do with them. We’ve been able to see a pattern of movement, if we assume these crimes are all Moriarty’s, moving from far Eastern Europe north and west, getting closer to England. But we need proof. MI6 has been...interrogating...some known allies of Moriarty’s, but they’re either very well trained, or ignorant of his movements the last thirty four months.”

Sherlock had now gotten to the part of the explanation which he very much did not want to share with John. John was perched on the edge of his chair, listening to every syllable, his eyes alight with interest. He was so thin. Sherlock had never seen him so thin. He didn’t even have tummy anymore, or a bit of pudge around his jaw. Every bone in his face was visible - he actually had cheekbones. Sherlock wondered if he was ill. He made a mental note to ask Mycroft to check into John’s medical records, make sure it wasn’t anything serious. 

“We need to extract information from the internet. Cameras, security film, emails, and the deeper internet, the information that can’t be searched by just anyone. We need anything that might give us actual evidence of Moriarty’s existence and movements. MI6 has people, but they’re limited by government rules and regulations. So, we’ve just retained a company that works a bit off the grid, private contracts with governments, that sort of thing. Mycroft and I are putting together a report to present to the representatives tomorrow morning.” Sherlock left out the critical piece of information about the company, the piece that would possibly upset John. 

Mycroft, of course, did not. “Company is run by an old colleague of Sherlock’s. And by colleague, I mean flatmate at uni.”

John’s eyebrows lifted marginally. He tried to not look too interested. In six years of friendship, interrupted, Sherlock had shared very little of his past with John. He knew almost nothing about Sherlock’s life at uni, and certainly never imagined him with a flatmate. It was nearly impossible to imagine Sherlock sharing living space with anyone but himself. Who else would put up with Sherlock’s moods, his mercurial temperament, the wretched mess all over the place?

“Oh? Who’s that, Sherlock? You never mentioned a roommate at uni.” John swiveled his gaze from Mycroft to Sherlock, and Sherlock saw some injury there. YOU never mentioned. Another thing YOU never told me. Another lie by omission.

“Mmmm, only for a year. No one could bear me longer than that.” Sherlock smiled that sparkling grin that only John ever got to see, and the implication of what was unsaid resonated right down to John’s toes. You could. You did. You could tolerate me that long and longer. 

John cleared his throat and looked away. “So, what’s his name, then?”

Mycroft spoke before Sherlock could. “Victor Trevor. vTech Corp is the company. Not an original name, I’ll grant you, but he’s a brilliant mind, and he’ll be consulting with us personally on this. We won’t be needing your services, John. I can’t imagine what you could possibly bring to the table here.”

John’s nostrils flared, he shot up out of the chair like a Christmas cracker popping, and brought himself nose to nose with Mycroft, or as close as he could get. 

“What.the.fuck.is.your.issue.with.me.Mycroft?” Each word was spit out, the ending chopped and angry. The muscle in John’s jaw was clenched and jumping. 

Mycroft sneered at him, eyes narrowing. “Let’s just say your devotion has wavered of late, understandably. You’ve other responsibilities now, and Sherlock isn’t your primary concern now.”

John swallowed hard. “Mycroft. You don’t get to tell me who my primary concern is.”

“Why don’t you go home to your wife?” Mycroft let the word wife hang in the air, sounding accusatory and foul. 

“Why don’t you shut your mouth?” John stepped forward a bit, and Sherlock was sure for a tenuous moment that he was going to take a swing at Mycroft. This was like a schoolyard fight. 

“John, you’ve no wish to make an enemy of me.” Mycroft took on the imperious tone he used when he became the British Government incarnate.

“No, I don’t. I always thought we rather liked each other, actually. But I don’t know why you want to get rid of me so badly, and if Sherlock wants me to stay, I’m staying. And Sherlock wants me to stay. Don’t you, Sherlock?” John’s voice was strong and confident, but when he turned to look at Sherlock, there was pleading in his eyes. 

“Of course I do. I’d be lost without you, John.” In every way, said the Sherlock in his head, the same Sherlock that conjured up images of blue eyes and tousled blonde hair as he was falling asleep at night, making his stomach ache. 

“Don’t punch Mycroft, John. I have no wish to see my brother embarrass himself trying to fight you.” Sherlock’s mouth drew up into a sly half smile, and John’s mouth twitched. He relented, backing up.

As he turned, he pointed a finger at Mycroft. “I don’t know, Mycroft. Why you don’t want me in Sherlock’s life anymore, I just don’t know. But you don’t get to make those decisions for us.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but John’s phone rang shrilly. He looked at it and took a deep breath, then answered. “Hi. I’m...ah...I’m at Baker Street. Yeah, I know I should’ve said.”

A twist of satisfaction curled in Sherlock’s chest. Mary didn’t know where John had gone, after all. 

Mycroft retreated back to his work station in the kitchen, shooting John a look a pure poison as he did. John silently gave him the finger.

“Look, he’s on a case, and I...I want to help. I know you’ll be going to bed soon anyway, and…no, I won’t stay the night. I’ll be home when you wake up. Yep. Okay, then. Goodnight.” John turned off his phone with a click and looked at Sherlock. “Mary.”

“Obviously.” Sherlock hated the sneer that he heard in his voice. 

John pulled at his upper lip with his teeth, looking supremely uncomfortable, as he always did when Mary had to be mentioned in Sherlock’s presence. He rocked on his heels, eyes drawn to Sherlock’s chest, where Mary’s bullet had entered. Sherlock looked at him and John’s eyes met his, and then they were caught in each other’s gaze, the room shrinking, becoming nothing but the space between them.

Finally, John looked away, and flopped down heavily in his chair. “Well, let’s bloody get to it. What can I do?”

***

By 3:00am, the report to vTech was finished. Mycroft had left, and John and Sherlock were nodding off in their chairs by a roaring fire. Well, John was nodding off. Sherlock was watching him with tired, red eyes, loathe to make him leave. 

Finally, he cleared his throat, and John jumped a bit, blinking. “Oh shit. What time...how long have I been asleep?” 

“Not long. But you need to go home.” Sherlock smiled, a bit sadly. “I called you a cab a few minutes ago.”

“Ah. Thanks. And...you know, I was glad I could help tonight.” John stood up stretching and grabbed his jacket. “You’ll call me? Keep me in the loop? Right?”

“Of course, John. Always.” Sherlock walked to the window and looked down. “Cab’s here.”

Sherlock turned, and their eyes locked. John swallowed hard as they gazed at each other for a long moment, until John looked down and broke the stare. It was always John who looked away. Every time. 

“Well, I better get home before Mary wakes up and gets in a strop about it. I’ll text you, okay?”

“And I you. Go on.” 

Sherlock listened to John’s footsteps retreating downstairs, the front door clicking shut, and turned back to the window. As John stepped into the cab, he twisted his head to look up at window where Sherlock stood, and with a wave, disappeared into the backseat. 

Sherlock watched the cab drive away, thinking how every time John left Baker Street, it always felt like the last time he would do so. It always felt like a goodbye. 

***

The next morning, Sherlock stepped out of the private car that had picked him up at Baker Street, looking up at the imposing facade of vTech Corp. It was all glass and steel, intimidating, yet elegant, and completely at odds with the small brick Georgian homes in the rest of the neighborhood. It flashed into Sherlock’s mind that Victor probably had something to do with the design of it. That was always Victor’s way, standing out from a crowd, being imposing, but so charming that people never minded.

Mycroft stepped out of the shadows, twirling his umbrella. “Hello brother. No tag along this morning?”

“If you mean John, no. He’s...busy.” Sherlock fell into step with Mycroft, and they walked through a set of glass sliding doors twice as tall as themselves. The fact was Sherlock hadn’t called him. Seeing him last night had been comforting in the moment, but in the early hours of the morning, sitting alone in the grey shadows of the cluttered flat, John’s absence was viscerally painful. He just needed time to process what he was feeling.

“You mean you didn’t ask him to be here.” Mycroft glanced sideways at him. 

“I mean, he’s busy. He does have a life outside of me, you know. I don’t want to talk about John.” Sherlock was surprised at how his voice caught over those words. 

Mycroft said nothing, just raised his eyebrows at Sherlock in that way he had, looking both imperious and concerned. Sherlock wanted to smack him sometimes, but he settled for rolling his eyes very obviously. 

“Can we try to act like a grown up this morning, Sherlock? This is rather important.” Mycroft shot him a particularly judgmental look, and Sherlock bit back a laugh.

“Mycroft, we’re meeting with Victor, someone I’ve known for more than a decade. I’m not concerned.”

They glared at each other. 

“Good morning! You must be the Holmes brothers.” A tall, lithe woman in a dark suit strode toward them, holding out her hand. “I’m Elizabeth Fitzroy, Mr. Trevor’s assistant. I’ll be taking you up to meet with the team.”

Sherlock tore his eyes away from Mycroft, and shook her hand. “Sherlock Holmes.”

She nodded. “Very nice to meet you, Mr. Holmes. Mr. Trevor has nothing but nice things to say about you.”

“I’m sure he absolutely doesn’t.” Sherlock’s mind rapidly filled with all the ‘nice’ things Victor could say about him, and he almost blushed. 

“And you must be Mycroft, then.” Elizabeth turned to him, shaking his hand, and then turned on her heel. “Follow me, gentlemen.”

She led them down a glass and metal hallway, stark and gleaming. There was no privacy here. Every office was walled in glass. Sherlock thought it would probably drive him mad to work here, everyone looking at him all time while he was thinking, talking, chattering about football matches and other inanity. 

“Gentlemen, if you’d step inside.” Elizabeth gestured to a set of opening elevator doors, which stood out in stark contrast to the rest of the building. They were carved wood, mahogany, richly polished, and old. Judging from the carvings, they were from the Middle East, possibly Turkey. Sherlock repressed a little laugh. It was so very Victor, to declare in this modern monstrosity of a building that he had likely designed, that HIS space would be richer, different. Victor always did need to be distinctive.

The inside of the elevator was the same, papered in antique wall fabric, gilded and rich. Sherlock found himself inexplicably looking forward to seeing Victor. Victor was the one stalwart at uni. The only person who never mocked Sherlock, never rejected him. Victor was snobby, wealthy, an Eton boy who’d never known a day of want in his life. Despite all that, he was kind, thoughtful, and had never said a purposefully hurtful word to Sherlock. They’d been much more than friends at uni, but Sherlock was sure Mycroft had no idea about that. 

“What are you smirking about?” Mycroft snapped.

“Nothing at all.” Sherlock replied smoothly.

The doors opened onto a gorgeously appointed hallway, plush Persian carpets, more carved wood - this time small tables and antique chairs - and oak wainscoting. The scent of espresso and expensive cologne hung in the air. Memory hit Sherlock like a punch to the gut. It smelled like Victor, and suddenly his mind was flooded with moments from uni that he hadn’t thought about in years. He and Victor in his room, soft hands and warm lips, murmured words in the dark. 

“Well, hello, gentlemen!” And there he was. Time had been very kind to Victor Trevor. Unlike Sherlock’s own skin, covered in laugh lines and small wrinkles, Victor’s skin was as smooth and unblemished as it had been eleven years ago. His deep brown eyes, ringed with thick black lashes, were sparkling as he flashed Sherlock and Mycroft a wide bright smile. 

“Mr. Trevor,” Mycroft nodded and held out his hand. 

“Victor, please. We’re practically family friends.” Victor shook Mycroft’s hand firmly, and turned to Sherlock, his smile shifting slightly, becoming more intimate. “Why, Sherlock and I have known each other for ages. Haven’t we? Hello, Sherlock.”

Sherlock couldn’t help but smile. Victor disarmed people. It was just his way. 

“Hello, Victor.” Their hands lingered just a beat longer than a normal handshake, a fact which wasn’t lost on either of them. Their eyes met, and Sherlock embarrassingly found himself biting his lip. Victor grinned, and Sherlock’s stomach fluttered. 

God, he was FLIRTING with Victor, ten seconds after walking into his office, with Mycroft right there. He was completely losing it. 

Victor clapped his hands together, and gestured at an open door at the end of the hallway. His eyes swept over Sherlock appraisingly, but it was Mycroft to whom he spoke. “Right this way, we’re meeting in my office. I’ve got the team assembled, my top people. They can crack anything, get anywhere on the net. I guarantee you that if Moriarty can be tracked down, these are the people that can do it.”

“I hope you’re right, Victor.” Mycroft fell into step beside him, forcing Sherlock to walk behind.

“I know I’m right, Mycroft.” Victor looked back at Sherlock, eyebrow arched, and winked. 

Sherlock forced himself not to smile back, but after Victor had turned his head, he couldn’t help it. Oh, my. This was going to be a problem. 

***

Sherlock sat idly plucking at his violin, trying to put his finger on why he wasn’t calling John, why he suddenly didn’t feel the need to have him involved in this. John had been texting him all afternoon, asking how the meeting had gone, and Sherlock usually texted him back immediately, but now...Sherlock found himself staring at the texts and just becoming...annoyed. He couldn’t remember ever feeling annoyed with John. Ever. Not in six years. 

But now? Yes, annoyance was the overwhelming emotion. 

Mary. John rarely mentioned Mary, but her presence just loomed over them. Sherlock couldn’t look at John without Mary attached somehow. It extinguished the chemistry between them, deadened their jokes, made everything fall flat. Mary was waiting, Mary was at home, Mary expected John at a certain time. John’s home was elsewhere, and he had someone else waiting for him. John belonged to her now. 

John wasn’t his anymore. That was the crux of it all. 

That was what made everything ache, made the world a bit less bright, made him sleep even less than usual. 

Because he still belonged to John. And John was gone. 

***

“I don’t know why he won’t answer me. I mean, one reply in twenty texts? I’m starting to get a bit worried now. This isn’t like him. And I was just there last night, helping him with this. Now, suddenly, he won’t discuss it with me? I don’t understand.” John looked at his phone in consternation, at the last text from Sherlock, saying he just didn’t want to talk to him. 

Mary sighed, rolling her eyes. “He’s a grown man, John. He can take care of himself. If he says he’s busy working, then he’s busy. He’s allowed to do things without you. You two aren’t joined at the hip, you know.”

Yeah, he does everything without me, John thought. He fell into silence, fiddling with the food on his plate. Mary had made a curry, baked fresh naan to go with it. The kitchen smelled delicious, homey and welcoming. And John couldn’t wait to leave it. 

“You know, this is really lovely, Mary, but I’m not very hungry. I’m just going to take a little walk, alright?” He pushed his chair back and stood up.

“You never eat, John. You’re going to make yourself sick.” Mary sounded more annoyed than concerned, as she lifted a forkful to her own lips without looking at John. “Are you going to Baker Street?”

“No. No, I’m not. Just going to take a walk. I’ll have my phone if you need me.” John touched his lips to the top of her head. 

“Alright. Be careful.” She pulled a magazine off a nearby shelf and flipped it open. He was dismissed. 

***

Forty minutes later, John was looking up at the windows of 221B, shivering in a chill wind. He didn’t knock. He didn’t go in. He stood there until he was shaking with cold, until his neck hurt from craning up at the windows. Only when Mary texted “Where on earth are you?”, did he turn his back to the house and walk away.


	2. Just want to Forget

Sherlock’s phone buzzed on the kitchen table. He ignored it. Probably John, texting him for the fiftieth time today, a week out from the initial meeting at vTech. He was in no mood for John, still. A thought that was both true and crushing. It was devastating, this distance that was growing between them. Devastating, but real. He’d never, in six years, not been in the mood for John. He’d never not wanted him beside him. Now he couldn’t stand to even see a text from him pop up. It was confusing and he hated being confused. He felt, in some ways, that was the overarching emotion he’d had since coming home. Everything was wrong and confusing.

His fingers curled around the violin bow in frustration, squeezing until the string bit into his skin. Fuck, but that felt good. The release that came with a bit of pain. Eyelids sinking shut, he squeezed harder, the snap of skin tearing filling an emptiness inside. But then, searching blue eyes swam inside his lids, and his eyes flew open. Fucking John. He could not get him out of his mind, always there, buried inside, a part of him. He wished sometimes he could cut him out somehow, excise him like a growth.

The phone buzzed again. And again.

Dammit, John. Sherlock leapt out of his chair forcefully enough that it scraped backwards across the wood and tipped up on two legs. He grabbed his phone, noticing his fingers were actually bleeding. Sticking them in his mouth, he swiped the phone to see the texts. But instead of the expected JW, he saw Victor Trevor-vTechInc. Oh.

There was a fleeting moment of disappointment. Not John.

Sherlock, I’d like to come by your flat and discuss a few things. Rather not at the office. Victor  
Are you home? I’m outside. Victor  
Are you home? I’d hate to bother you, but really would like to come up. Victor

Sherlock hesitated. Victor did not want to talk about Moriarty. Sherlock knew this particular trick of Victor’s, because he used to do the same thing at uni. “Sherlock, I need a study partner.” and then they’d end up tangled in rumpled sheets, panting and sweaty. Most of the time, Victor wouldn’t even bring his textbooks.Once he’d gotten inside Sherlock’s flat, he dropped the pretense completely.

He’d been sensing it, since this all started with Victor’s company. That he wouldn’t get out the other end of this investigation without something happening with Victor. Known it the moment their eyes had met, over that lingering handshake. The phone buzzed against his skin, and Sherlock closed his eyes. There was John’s face again, bringing with it so much anger and sadness and happiness and pain and love and laughter...and Sherlock absolutely hated him in that moment. Hated him for what could have been, what they’d lost. Hated him because John kept trying to have it both ways, have Mary and have Sherlock, and he just couldn’t.

Hated himself for making it happen, for trying to give John a ‘normal’ life, and pushing them away from each other in the process.

He opened his eyes and looked at the new text. It was John this time.

Why won’t you answer me? I want to talk. Please. JW

No, John. I don’t want to talk to you right now. I’m busy. SH

His fingers hovered over SEND, hesitating, and then he heard Victor’s knock at the door, and all at once, he realised he needed to let go of John Watson. To save his own sanity. He pressed send and turned his phone off, tossed it into John’s chair - that hurt a bit - and flew down the steps, two at a time.

Victor was looking out into the street when Sherlock opened the door. He turned slowly, already smiling. He knew exactly what he was doing, and that Sherlock would give in, would want it. The power he’d always had over Sherlock was undeniable.

“Hello, Sherlock. Was beginning to think you were avoiding me.” He smiled, all white teeth and soft brown eyes.

“Ah, no...I just...I thought you were someone else.”

“That you’re avoiding?” Victor’s eyebrow went up, and he smiled meaningfully.

“Well, sort of.” The idea of discussing John with Victor was nauseating. John was his, no one else’s. Sherlock swallowed, gathering himself. “You haven’t brought anything with you.”

Victor held his hands out in a ‘You got me’ motion, and licked his bottom lip. The gesture reminded Sherlock powerfully of John, and he had to close his eyes. Fuck you, John, get out of my head.

“I came to see you, Sherlock. Catch up.” He smiled again. “Aren’t you going to invite me up?”

“Yes, yeah, I mean...come in.” Sherlock hated how Victor could get him flustered.

He could feel Victor’s eyes roaming over his body as they walked up the steps. His heart was racing faster. He did want this, wanted it as much as he wanted to punish John. Which, at the moment, was quite a lot.

They walked into the flat, and Victor immediately picked Sherlock’s phone out of John’s chair and sat down. Sherlock tamped down a ridiculous urge to tell him to sit somewhere else. It’s not even John’s chair anymore. No reason to call it that. A soreness rose in his throat at that thought.

He swallowed over it. “Tea?”

“Not really a tea fan, Sherlock. Remember?” Victor twisted his head round, heat filling his deep brown eyes. Recalling long afternoons spent padding half nude around Sherlock’s flat at uni, falling into bed at any moment, Sherlock curled on the sofa in between, wrapped in a blanket, drinking tea, while Victor lounged with his head in Sherlock’s lap, sipping scotch on the rocks.

“I forgot. I don’t have any scotch. John and I usually have wine…” Damn. Not even five minutes in, and here comes John. Sherlock bit the inside of his cheek, hard. Go away, John. I’m not yours anymore.

“Wine is fine.” He didn’t comment about John.

Sherlock put the kettle on, and set about finding the corkscrew.

“So, Sherlock...seems you’ve been quite the busy boy since leaving uni. Consulting with the London police, freelancing for the Home Office, all kinds of adventures that have nothing to do with either one. You’re like the Indiana Jones of crime.” Victor was up out of John’s chair now - a fact which gave Sherlock a relief that he didn’t want to be feeling - and was looking around the flat, picking things up, inspecting the evidence wall above the sofa.

The mention of Indiana Jones sent another jolt of missing John through him. He would never have even known who that was six years ago, but John loved those films. He could almost feel the heat of John sitting next to him, laughing and nudging Sherlock awake when he fell asleep from boredom. Dammit.

“Yes, I suppose so.” He walked into the sitting room, handed Victor his glass of wine. The kettle started screaming. “I’ll just, ah, go get my tea, and be right back.”

When he came back, Victor was sitting in his chair. Oh, that’s much better. Sherlock sat in John’s chair, catching a whiff of John’s soap and shampoo as he sank down. He took a sip of scalding tea to burn away the thoughts he didn’t want.

“Tell me about this John fellow. He live here?” Victor rubbed a thick hand over his neatly trimmed goatee, and looked at Sherlock steadily.

“He used to. I don’t really want to discuss it.”

“Ex?”

“No. Not an ex. I really, really don’t want to discuss it.” Sherlock felt a note of anger creeping into his voice.

“Fair enough.” Victor drained half the wine in one sip, started fiddling with the violin bow, which Sherlock had left leaning against his chair.

“Victor, why did you come here? We could have discussed anything about Moriarty at your office, or at my brother’s.” Sherlock just wanted to cut through all this pretense.

Victor smiled crookedly, white teeth glowing against his deep brown skin. He was an incredibly attractive man. As opposite from John as possible. Dark, tall, and muscular where John was small, lithe, white. Victor was all suave innuendo, and John was nothing but English reserve. God, he could not let go of John. Go away, John, please. The Sherlock in his mind was practically whinging, begging. He couldn’t stand it anymore. Years of pining and wanting and thinking one day, one day. No more.

“You know why, Sherlock. I’ve never been able to keep away from you. If you’re in close proximity, anyway.” Victor downed the rest of his wine. He held the glass up. “Another?”

“Certainly.” As Sherlock took the glass, their fingers brushed, and Victor gave him a look that made him shiver.

He felt Victor coming up behind him in the kitchen, and set the wine bottle down. Then there were warm hands on his waist, and Victor’s lips against the back of his neck. “You remember this, surely, Sherlock? How many afternoons passed just like this?”

“Many.” Sherlock choked out. He had the irrational notion suddenly that he was being unfaithful to John.

Victor’s lips were at his ear, soft and full, and there was the not unpleasant scratch of the goatee, which Victor hadn’t had at uni. He closed his eyes, breathing deep, and allowed himself to sink backwards into Victor’s embrace. He didn’t belong to John, because John didn’t belong to him. I don’t, I don’t, I don’t, repeated in his mind, not quite convincingly. But good enough for the moment.

Victor was going to make him forget. He was going to lose himself in this and forget John.

He turned, and in one motion, wrapped his arms around Victor’s waist and kissed him, hard. Victor made a quiet assenting noise and pushed Sherlock up against the counter, slipping his hands up Sherlock’s back and his tongue in between his lips. A deep kiss, hard and purposeful. There was no retreat from this - there never was with Victor, it was all or nothing, every time.

Victor drew back, a sly smile on his lips. He licked them, watching Sherlock from heavy lidded eyes. “Well. You haven’t lost your touch since uni. You’ve got me hard as a rock in thirty seconds. Where’s the bedroom?”

“Come on. I’ll show you.” Sherlock grabbed the wine bottle and crooked a finger at Victor, who followed close behind, already shedding his suit jacket on the kitchen floor.

***

“Been a long time…” Victor murmured into Sherlock’s neck, hand sliding down his bare stomach.

“You have no idea.” The last shag Sherlock had was Victor, summer after uni, staying in some wretched little borrowed flat in Brighton, in a high rise right on King’s Road by the beach. Everything had been soggy and vaguely sticky, and all they’d had to eat and drink for days was chips and beer. The sex had been slow and sad. It was a goodbye, and they’d both known it.

“Brighton.” Victor was licking at Sherlock’s nipple now, making him clutch at the headboard.

“Yeah.” Oh god, he’d actually forgotten, forgotten how good this felt. He’d deleted the feeling of sex, of someone’s weight on top of him, the dizzying sensation of someone’s tongue on his bare skin. His whole body was vibrating.

Victor reached up and curled his fingers in Sherlock’s hair, pulling his head back. Oh. Like that. Oh yeah, Victor was always a bit pleasantly rough. He’d forgotten that, too.

“I’ve wanted to do this since the second you and Mycroft walked into my office. I would have taken you right on that antique table.” Victor wrapped his other hand around Sherlock’s cock without hesitation, and pulled gently. “I would have. I would have laid you across that table and made you come with me in your mouth.”

Oh god. Sherlock was beyond trembling now, positively shaking with arousal, with anticipation, and a bit of fear. He hadn’t done this in a very long time.

He looked down, and the sight of Victor’s hand wrapped around him made his whole body twitch and shudder. Yes. He needed this. He needed to release, the forgetting. He needed someone to make him forget why he felt so sad all the time.

“You’re awfully quiet. You always made a lovely amount of noise, as I remember…” Victor kissed down Sherlock’s neck, pulling gently on his cock in rhythm with his kisses. “Come on now, darling, make some noise for me.”

Sherlock let himself groan, feeling somewhat self-conscious. But, oh, it did feel so good. He tried to let go a bit more, as Victor climbed on top of him and began licking a path down his stomach.

“That’s lovely. I love to listen to you, always did. You were the hottest thing...everyone wanted you.” Victor was nibbling at his thigh now, oh god. His head was swimming.

He reached over the edge of the bed, sitting up a little, and grabbed the bottle of wine, took a sip. He needed everything possible to make him forget right now. Everything. Sex, wine, anything.

“No they didn’t. They hated me.” Sherlock took another sip of wine, slammed the bottle back on the floor harder than he meant to, as Victor’s lips closed over the head of his cock. “Oh, fuck, oh god, that’s good…”

Victor’s fingers closed around Sherlock’s thighs tightly, holding him down to the bed. He licked hard up the vein, pressing the tip of his tongue into Sherlock’s skin. Sherlock moaned, spine curling up off the bed, grabbing at the headboard and the sheets, Victor’s head, anything, trying to anchor himself somehow. It had been so long since he’d been touched like this. He wasn’t going to last long.

Victor kissed the inside of Sherlock’s thigh. “They didn’t hate you. They wanted you, and they wanted to be as successful and clever as you, and they couldn’t do either one, so they settled for being hateful. But you’ve no idea the conversations that went on when you weren’t there.” For emphasis on this point, Victor bit down on the soft skin he’d just been kissing, and looked up at him, a sinful smile on his face. “They wanted every part of you. And I was the only one who got you.”

He circled two fingers around the base of Sherlock’s cock, and licked gently, eyes never leaving Sherlock’s face. Sherlock’s hips desperately wanted to buck up, push himself into Victor’s mouth. His whole body was thrumming with need, skin tingling, every muscle in his groin tightening. His hands fell on top of Victor’s head, fingertips digging into his scalp.

“Oh my, lovely. Eager, aren’t we? You’re lucky I’m feeling particularly generous today.” Victor’s lips were still moving as his sank his mouth over Sherlock and pushed his tongue against him, sliding slowly down to meet his lips to his tightening fingers. He pulled up a bit and then back down quickly, fingers moving in a circle, squeezing just enough to create a pleasant constricting sensation.

“Oh god, oh god…” A swell of shivering heat rose in Sherlock’s belly, surging up his chest, leaving him breathless. He clenched his eyes shut and bit hard on his lip, trying to control himself long enough to not be humiliated.

Victor hummed around him, and the vibration was enough to make him bite through his lip, skin snapping with a rush of blood over his tongue. “Oh, fuck, fuck, that is so good, oh god…don’t stop…”

There was a buzzing in his ears, and a hot heaviness in his lower belly. He couldn’t swallow. It had been so long since he’d cut himself off from this, from this kind of loss of control. He’d forgotten how glorious this moment was, right before, right on the edge, body tensing, throbbing, burning hot...and then, oh god, yes, there it was...Victor scraped his teeth lightly upwards, just once, and he was coming.

He couldn’t stop himself from pushing Victor’s head down and his hips up, shouting and cursing, head thudding back into the pillow and the headboard. The whole bed was rocking, as he pushed backwards, thigh muscles bracing him as he flung his hips up again and again. “Oh my god, don’t stop, oh, just like that, yeah…” He was talking nonsense, he knew, but Victor loved to hear him and he was so overcome, he couldn’t quiet himself.

Victor swallowed around him and slipped his mouth off with a pop, licked his lips. “You taste like vanilla and gin. I could suck you all day long. I remember a time when I did, in fact.”

A response was impossible. He was shivering, limbs dead and heavy, head so full and sleepy that he thought he might pass out right then. He hadn’t felt this euphorically insensible since the last time he’d had a needle hanging out of his arm.

“Don’t you go to sleep, darling.” Victor crawled back up the bed, dragging his lips along Sherlock’s hipbone, hands sliding up his sides. Licked up the side of his face. “I’m still going to fuck you.”

“Oh god, yes, I want you to.” Sherlock breathed out, barely even conscious of what he was saying. He wrapped his arms around Victor’s broad shoulders, feeling blissfully at his mercy.

“I know you do. You want me so badly, you always did.” Victor kept murmuring in Sherlock’s ear, hands running all over his body. He ran a hand up over Sherlock’s throat, two fingers sliding over his chin, touching his lips. “Oh, that mouth of yours. It hasn’t gotten any less dangerous. Suck.”

He pushed his fingers into Sherlock’s mouth gently, and Sherlock looked up at him, keeping eye contact as he sucked and wet Victor’s fingers. He knew what came after this, and he wanted it desperately. His brain was completely offline, as he’d wanted. Just like everything Sherlock did, sex was something he gave himself over to entirely, falling into it like down a bottomless pit. Right now, all he could think about was how good this was, how Victor’s thigh felt tucked between his legs, and how what was coming next would feel even better.

“Oh that’s it, darling. Look at you, my goodness. You want this so badly. Your eyes are absolutely on fire.” Victor’s head tilted to the side, a soft smile, a flick of his tongue on his lips, watching Sherlock suck on his fingers like there was nothing else in the world he was more passionate about.

“I think you’ve got it, dear. Ready for me?” Victor slipped his fingers out from between Sherlock’s swollen lips, and kissed him hard, tongue licking over where Sherlock had bitten into his lip earlier. “Oh my, did I make you do that to your lip? Good to know I can still make you come that hard…”

Then his fingers were moving down, and Sherlock was instinctively parting his legs, letting Victor reach around and oh...yes...he was pressing saliva soaked fingers into him. Sherlock bucked up - it burned horribly, he was so tight - and cried out. Victor smoothed his hand down his side and shushed him.

“Shhhhh, lovely boy. It’ll only hurt for a moment.” He pushed harder, farther, and Sherlock clutched at his back with scrabbling fingers, a choked cry caught in his throat. God, he was getting hard again. It had been so long, he could probably get hard all day. It didn’t escape Victor’s attention. “Oh, like that, do you? You always did. Wait until I’m inside you. You’ll come again, and I’ll lick it off you.” Victor had never been reticent about anything sexual, and it was mind bendingly arousing.

“Oh, Victor…” Sherlock groaned, muscles clenching around Victor’s fingers. It still hurt, but it was sliding from pure pain to pleasure pain.

“That’s it...that’s it, darling. Now, come on, you’ve got to have something around here better than spit.” He cocked an eyebrow at Sherlock, fingers idly pushing in and out, twisting, so Sherlock was barely able to talk.

He threw an arm out and vaguely pointed at the bathroom door.

“Oh, but that means I have to stop doing this.” And he pushed a third finger in, making Sherlock’s entire body vault off the mattress, waves of tremulous desire spiraling through him. He looked down, Victor’s dark brown arm beautifully set off against his own creamy white legs, moving relentlessly back and forth, and the sight of it made his cock jump and harden more.

“You still like to watch, eh? Oh, I remember. I remember you watching us in that mirror on the closet in your old flat. Something about studying the way our muscles moved...it was all bullshit. It just turned you on.” Victor pushed in hard, making Sherlock gasp, and bit down lightly on his collarbone.

“Now, I’m going to go in the loo and find what I need, and you don’t move a muscle.” He kissed Sherlock’s neck softly - he was never much for kissing on the mouth during sex - and withdrew his fingers, leaving Sherlock feeling empty somehow, and slithered off the bed.

Sherlock took a deep shuddering breath in, and pushed his sweat soaked hair from his face. God, this was incredible. Why on earth he hadn’t had sex in eleven years, he could no longer remember. Victor was making noise in the bathroom, opening cupboards and looking through drawers. His erection started to flag, and without even thinking about, he reached down and gave a long pull, making himself pant. Oh, god. He hadn’t done that in quite a while, either. Not since John left.

Before he realised what he was even doing, he was giving himself quite a wank, way past just making himself hard again. Heat was gathering in his belly, head twisting back into the pillow, as he pulled faster and harder, slipping wet fingers over the head and squeezing.

“Couldn’t wait for me, eh, darling?” Victor was standing in the doorway to the loo, tip of his tongue between his teeth. He jerked his chin at Sherlock, who had stopped. “Keep going. That’s absolutely gorgeous.”

“No, I want you. Come on.” It was the first coherent sentence Sherlock had been able to utter since they started. He looked up at Victor from under his eyelashes and gave himself one last hard pull upwards, a small desperate moan escaping him.

“Well, I do rather want to fuck you.” Victor crawled back on the bed, insinuating himself between Sherlock’s legs, drawing them up around him. “You know I like those long legs wrapped around my back.”

Sherlock smiled, eyes half closed, and caught his bottom lip with his teeth. “I know. But you have to be inside me first.”

Victor held up a condom still in the wrapper, and the bottle of oil he’d found in the bathroom. “Good thing I brought a condom, and we’ll have to talk about your lack of decent lubricants…”

Sherlock was getting impatient. “Come ON.”

Victor’s full lips ticked up in a knowing smile. “You always did like the fucking part the best.”

He ripped the condom open with his teeth, rolled it on quickly, and messily poured oil over himself and Sherlock. “Ready, darling?”

“Yes, yes, come on…” Sherlock grabbed at Victor’s waist, gym hard muscles contracting under his hands.

All at once, Victor surged forward, yanking Sherlock’s hips up and pushing inside in one smooth motion. It burned and hurt, and Sherlock bit back a pained cry.

“Too much, darling?” Victor slowed down, stroking a hand down Sherlock’s side. He stopped moving entirely, concerned eyes watching him.

“It’s just...it's been a while. Can we go slow for a bit?” Sherlock closed his hands around Victor’s waist, feeling the hard muscles moving under his hands.

“Of course. I want you to like it, too…” Victor murmured, rolling his hips very carefully forward.

They went slow and soft, Victor only inside halfway, for a long time. Gradually, Sherlock’s body loosened, remembering how good it felt to be filled up like this.

“You can go in all the way now.” He pulled on Victor’s hips, urging him forward.

“Are you sure? I don’t want to hurt you.” Victor resisted Sherlock’s tug on his hips, and instead leaned forward and gently kissed him.

“Yes, Victor. Yes, god, fuck me now, come on.”

Victor shuddered and whispered something, all Sherlock could decipher was 'fucking hot', and then he rocked in all the way. Sherlock’s whole body arched, the top of his head banging into the headboard, a tide of arousal washing over him, arms flinging back behind him to grab at anything he could. “Oh my fucking god! That is so good…”

“Yes, it is…” Victor’s voice had lost its controlled amusement. It was rough now, husky with want. “God, Sherlock, you feel so good. So tight.”

Victor rocked a few times slowly, hips rolling in a gentle circle, making sure he wasn’t hurting him now that he was all the way in, then he looked down and met Sherlock’s eye. “You know what I like, Sherlock. Alright now?”

“Yeah, it’s alright...I want you to. Fuck me hard, Victor.” Sherlock dropped his voice, purring at Victor, running his hands up his chest slowly.

Victor’s whole body contracted, and his eyes fell shut. “Yeah. I like that. Keep saying that.”

He began thrusting harder now, setting a fast rhythm, snapping his hips forward with abandon. His fingers dug into Sherlock’s hips, but gentle enough to not leave bruises. Sherlock continued murmuring ‘harder’, ‘faster’, until Victor was going so hard and fast that Sherlock couldn’t talk anymore, he was gasping for breath and clawing into Victor’s shoulders with shaking fingers.

Victor stopped and went rigid, head falling back, his mouth slightly open. His hands tightened on Sherlock’s hipbones. Sherlock reached down and pulled on his cock a few times, and that was enough, spilling over his hand and onto his stomach with a shout as he felt Victor pulsing inside him. Victor collapsed forward, the weight of his muscular body warm and pleasant.

They stayed like that for a moment, both breathing hard, and sweating, Victor’s face in Sherlock’s neck. Then Victor rolled off of him, reached over the side of the bed to take a drink from the wine bottle, and turned his head and looked at Sherlock with a smile. Sherlock smiled back, still panting a bit.

“Well, that was just as good as ever. I could get used to that again.” There was a question in Victor’s voice.

Sherlock swallowed hard. He couldn’t make any promises. But then, Victor never really cared much for that kind of thing. “And I, Victor. That was...mind numbing.”

“Which seems to be what you’re looking for.” Victor had always been rather deductive himself.

“Some days. Yes.” Sherlock closed his eyes, and saw those baby blue ones, long blonde lashes blinking at him. FUCK. He didn’t even make it two minutes afterwards without John surging back into his consciousness.

“Mmmm..” Victor rolled on his side, trailing a finger through the mess on Sherlock’s stomach. “I believe I made you promise about this…”

He lowered his mouth to Sherlock’s stomach, and Sherlock groaned, blue eyes disappearing with a fizzle.


	3. We're Always Hurting Each Other

The next weeks passed in a heady fog of work and sex, Victor coming over to the flat every night, after they spent most of the day together, pouring over security camera film and blog entries and anything that the team at vTech had dug up. They worked well together, Victor understanding that Sherlock often needed to be left alone to think, to put the pieces together, if they’d found anything. And Sherlock realised he wasn’t the expert on the technical side, and allowed Victor and his team to take the lead on that end.

After the day was over at the office, Sherlock would take him reams of paper and tape and evidence back to Baker Street to pour over later. Victor would come by, and they would share dinner, drinks, and fall into bed, for hours. Just like at uni. It was easy. Simple. Work, food, sex. Glorious, mind bending sex. No profound feelings really involved. Sherlock had never been in love with Victor. He was compelling. He was forceful, and fascinating, devastatingly attractive, and fantastic in bed. But nothing more complicated than that. 

Not like with John. With John, every second together shone like blinding sunlight. It was in their souls, this connection to each other. It wasn’t definable, there was no language for it. And every moment John was gone, not his, was desperately painful. Nothing was simple where John was concerned. John was a constant ache, which Victor numbed somewhat. 

John was texting constantly, asking about the case, asking about Sherlock. Sherlock erased every one without answering. Without even looking, most of the time. Couldn’t bear to see that familiar JW at the end. He just couldn’t stand to be in love with him anymore, but of course he was, he couldn’t just stop being, and so he couldn’t bear to see him. To be reminded of everything he couldn’t have. 

And for John to not understand, not understand what he was doing to Sherlock, it was infuriating. John, who had always understood Sherlock better than anyone. His best friend in the world, still, even after all this. The one person who had always seemed to intuitively know what he was thinking, what he needed. How could he not understand how tortuous this was for Sherlock? How could he still not understand, after everything, what Sherlock felt for him? Sherlock had no idea. 

His dreams were still filled with John. Memories of them laughing over dinner, puttering around the kitchen together, John at his side on a case, notebook in hand, bickering like an old married couple. He dreamt also of things that had never happened - John kissing him, slow and sweet, John wrapping his arms around him in bed, Sherlock’s head on his chest. Then he would wake up, eyes wet, throat sore. Roll over to see Victor lying there, gorgeous and sexy and rich, but nothing at all compared to John. He couldn’t curl to Victor’s side and feel the relief, the quiet mind, the peace, that he felt just when John was in the room, just THERE. 

Victor was just a really satisfying distraction. He knew he’d have to face up to John eventually, but he was putting it off as long as possible. 

Then came the afternoon when Sherlock walked into the sitting room, and John was perched on the edge of his chair, jaw tight, lips pursed. Sherlock stopped dead. Oh god. There was John. In the flat. Sherlock’s heart contracted so viscerally, he felt suddenly that he knew what it was like to have a heart attack. 

John turned and looked up when he heard Sherlock come in, blue eyes stormy. Sherlock couldn’t help the silent sob that rose up in his throat when their eyes met, but he bit it back, clamping his teeth down on his lip.

He was so perfect, and right where he was supposed to be. All big blue eyes and mussed blonde hair, compact body in jeans and a red button-up that had always been one of Sherlock’s favourites. It was loose on him, though. He was even thinner than the last time they’d seen each other, his fingers looked bony, cheekbones even more prominent in that usually round face. He looked tired and rumpled. 

Sherlock wanted to rush at him and gather him into his arms and never let him leave. The last weeks with Victor immediately faded in their brilliance. This was John. John was home. Nothing else made sense or mattered. For a moment, he couldn’t remember why on earth he’d been keeping him away.

“John. What the hell are you doing here?” Sherlock winced. That wasn’t at all what he wanted to say, but it just slipped out.

John laughed. That dangerous laugh that meant he was right on the edge of really losing it. “Happy to see you, too, you dickhead. Well, Sherlock, when your best friend completely cuts you out of his life, and won’t answer your texts or your calls for WEEKS, and refuses to tell you what you’ve done or why he won’t talk to you...it tends to wear one down a bit. I thought I would come over and see what in the ever living FUCK was going on. That’s all.”

John breathed hard, fist clenching. He stood up, facing Sherlock.

Victor would be here any moment. He’d been just a few minutes behind Sherlock leaving vTech. 

“John. This isn’t a good time.”

“Well, when WOULD be a good fucking time, Sherlock? Because, until about a month ago, any time was a perfectly good time for me to come here. And now it isn’t. And I don’t know WHY.” John shook his head, mouth crumpling. He blinked, and Sherlock saw his eyes were rimmed red.

Please don’t cry, John. Please. I cannot handle it if you cry. 

They stood there in silence for a moment.

“How is Mary?” Sherlock didn’t know why he said that. Oh yes, he did; to hurt. To make John remember that he didn’t belong here anymore. Well done, Sherlock. Be as cruel as possible to the one person who matters the most to you. 

“Wow. Really? That’s what you’re going to ask me right now? I don’t want to talk about Mary. I want to talk about ME and YOU. What is happening with US, Sherlock?” John’s hand was shaking, jaw grinding tightly. Sherlock knew he was seconds from exploding, and he wanted nothing more than to kiss him until he stopped being angry, wrap his arms around him, and beg him to come home, come home to me, John.

But it was too late. Choices had been made, it was done. 

“John, really. We’ll make a date to discuss this, I promise. But right now…” Sherlock hated saying these things to John, making the distance between them even worse, but he couldn’t imagine John and Victor meeting. He had to get John out of there. 

“No. Goddammit, Sherlock. I’ve had enough. We are discussing this now. Right bloody now. What have I done? What’s my fault this time?” He threw his phone, which he’d been turning over in his hand, into his chair, hard. It bounced and landed on the floor. John ignored it. “It’s always my fault, right? We’ve already established that.”

Sherlock’s heart broke a little at that and he tried to soften his tone. “Nothing. You haven’t done anything, John.”

“No?” John’s tone was incredulous, face white with fury. “Then can you please, for the love of Christ, tell me why my best friend has completely excluded me not only from this incredibly important case - to BOTH of us, I might add - but also his life? Can you tell me why, if I haven’t done anything?”

Right at that moment, Sherlock heard the downstairs door open and close. Shit. He closed his eyes, trying to gather himself for the oncoming storm. 

John sucked his cheeks in and looked at Sherlock. Voice deadly calm, he said to Sherlock, “Who is that? I know it’s not Mrs Hudson, she’s watching telly in her flat.”

Sherlock’s words came out in a rush, feeling guilty, though he knew intellectually that he had no reason to. “John, there’s something you should know…”

Then there was Victor, silhouetted in the doorway, all narrow waist, broad shoulders, brown skin glowing against a white shirt with the cuffs rolled up, a bottle of wine dangling from one hand. “Sherlock, sorry, I stopped for...wine…” He sputtered to a stop, looking from John to Sherlock, and immediately sensing the suffocating tension in the room.

“Who the fuck are you?” John leveled a finger at him, biting off the end of each word. 

“John!” Sherlock was shocked at John’s normal ineffable politeness giving way to shouting at a stranger. 

“It’s alright, Sherlock. It’s perfectly understandable that John - I presume you are the infamous John - is a bit put off by a stranger in your flat, especially when you two already seem a bit...perturbed. I’m Victor Trevor.” He held out his hand to John, a rather less wolfish smile than usual on his face. 

John didn’t take his hand. He huffed a nasty laugh, and pursed his lips, shaking his head. He looked at Sherlock. “Replaced me that quickly, did you?”

Sherlock felt a cold fury rising in him, filling his chest. He had to remember to breathe. “Replaced you? I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Well, you won’t talk to me, you won’t see me, and here he is. What am I supposed to think?” John danced his hands around, mockingly, that murderous smile on his face. ‘Stupid loyal John will follow Sherlock anywhere, but when Sherlock gets tired of him, he just stops returning his texts and finds a new friend, or jumps off a bloody roof and disappears for two years! I guess I’m a lot more replaceable than you. Us ordinary people.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. 

“Oh, I’m sorry if my fucking pain is tedious to you.”

“John, just stop. You’re embarrassing yourself. And me.”

“Oh, I embarrass you now. Is that new, too?”

“John, shut up. You are being an utter arse right now. And horribly rude.”

“You know, Sherlock, funny thing...I don’t really fucking care. I’m sick to death of being pushed about by you like I’m a toy, to use when convenient. And to put away when it isn’t. I’m not a convenience.”

“I know that!”

“Well, then why have you been ignoring me for almost a month!? I text you all the time. I’ve called. I’ve left notes on the door. Why won’t you see me?”

Sherlock clamped his mouth shut. He had no idea how to respond to that without telling John the absolute truth, which he wasn’t about to do with Victor there. He and John stared at each other, breathing hard, both furious. Sherlock was very much holding back the urge to knock John on the floor and punch him bloody, and John didn’t look far off from the same. 

Victor set the wine bottle down carefully, and raised his hands in a gesture of peace. “Now, I know there’s obviously a history here that I know nothing about…”

“You know FUCK ALL about us.’ John spit at him, eyes still on Sherlock. 

Victor ignored that. “But I think we all need to just take a deep breath and calm down.”

“You don’t need to do anything except leave. This is between me and Sherlock.” John whipped his head round to look at Victor, eyes burning with anger. 

“John! Stop it. Victor isn’t leaving. You are.” Fuck, but that hurt to say. He was breaking his own heart. The last thing he wanted was this, this fracture between them. It just seemed inevitable now. 

John’s mouth fell open, turning slowly to look at Sherlock. His blue eyes were bright with tears, but his voice was steady. “Do you hate me? What did I bloody DO, Sherlock?”

“You didn’t do anything. Honestly. Of course I don’t hate you, don’t be stupid. I could never hate you. It’s just...I can’t see you right now.” Sherlock looked down, unable to meet John’s eyes any more. This was the exact conversation he’d been trying to avoid, and it was just as painful and devastating as he’d thought it would be.

“Why? I don’t understand.” John’s voice was pleading, some of the anger having drained.

“You never have.” Sherlock said quietly.

Their eyes locked. John’s were searching, begging Sherlock to help him understand, and angry still, and there was an incongruous happiness there, too, just from seeing Sherlock again, having him feet away from him, even if John mostly wanted to knock him flat at the moment. Sherlock’s eyes were soft and sad, and John fought an urge to take his face in his hands, stroke his hair. Even when he was furious with him, John couldn’t help wanting to comfort Sherlock, protect him. Even if it was from himself. 

“Then tell me. Tell me what I don’t understand.” John had forgotten Victor, who had fallen silent. He was just lost in Sherlock’s eyes.

Sherlock swallowed hard. He definitely wasn’t going to have this conversation in front of Victor. 

“Not now, John.” He closed his eyes and rubbed a palm over his face. 

“Fuck, YES, NOW, Sherlock. Goddammit! I am so sick of this shit.” The spell of their locked eyes broken, John was immediately furious again.

Victor cleared his throat. They both swung their heads to stare at him. “Just a thought. Perhaps it would be best if you had this conversation when you’re both calmer, and when there isn’t a third party here. Maybe setting a date would be a good idea. Just a thought.”

“Who ARE you? I know you’re working with Sherlock and Mycroft, but why are you HERE?” In my flat, was the end of that sentence, both in John’s and Sherlock’s minds, but of course, no one said it.

Victor looked at Sherlock, and he nodded, taking a deep breath. 

“Sherlock and I are seeing each other, John. That’s why I’m here.” Victor said it as calmly and carefully as he could, not even moving a muscle. Everyone in the room felt that John was on the edge.

He laughed. Licked his lips furiously, looking back and forth between Sherlock and Victor. “Are you fucking kidding me? Sherlock doesn’t SEE people.”

Victor inclined his head slightly, trying not to smile. “Well, he and I were together at uni, and we are now. I’m not sure what happened in the intervening years, and I haven’t asked. But I assure you, we are seeing each other.”

John’s nostrils flared, and he bit down on his lip, whirling to look at Sherlock. “Yeah? You’re SEEING someone? For real, not just to break into someone’s office? I thought that wasn’t your area?”

The look in John’s eyes. It was pain. Heartache. Sherlock found himself momentarily speechless.

“John. I…” He had no idea what he wanted to say. I love you? I miss you desperately, so much sometimes that I feel like I wish I was dead? I hate you? You chose her, not me?

But before he could gather his thoughts, John was swiping his phone off the floor and striding towards the door. 

“You know what, Sherlock? Sod this. You want to talk to me, you know where to find me. I’m done with running after you like your fucking dog.” He shot a vicious look at Victor as he walked past him. “Especially when you’re fucking someone else.”

He slammed the door shut so hard that the glass in the kitchen doors rattled. It took Sherlock a beat to process what John had just said, and then he was running to the door, shoving Victor aside, wrenching it open. He flew down the steps and managed to shout as John was opening the front door, “I was never fucking you, John!”

John stopped on a dime, and spun around. His eyes were burning, Sherlock could almost physically feel the heat of his anger. Yet, when he spoke, Sherlock heard the regret in his voice. “I never said you were.”

Sherlock could not believe he was hearing what he thought he was hearing. John bit his lip, looked up at Sherlock, halfway down the steps. His eyes softened, and he shook his head. His eyes flicked toward the ceiling. “What are you doing with him, Sherlock?”

That wasn’t in any way what Sherlock had expected John to say, and it sat all wrong. John had no right to tell him who to be with, or even ask. He’d certainly been clear enough over the years, about where he stood, how uninterested, how incredibly not gay he was. 

“Look, John, this is really none of your business. Victor is an old...friend...and a bit more. That’s all.” Sherlock could see John struggling, swallowing hard and rocking on his heels, hand clenching. All his tells. 

“You never mentioned him to me. Not once in six years. Mycroft did.” John glared at Sherlock out of the corner of his eye, jaw muscle jumping. “Is he why you...don’t want to see me? What, every time you’re with someone, your best friend doesn’t matter anymore?” 

“John. It’s more complicated than that, and you know it.” 

They watched each other warily, neither sure what to say next. John finally opened and closed his mouth a few times before he said, “I don’t think it’s more complicated, Sherlock. You decide now when I’m your friend and when I’m not. And there was a time...a time...when it wasn’t like that. I don’t understand what changed.”

“You got married, John. You have a wife. You chose her.” Sherlock said indignantly, purposefully echoing the words of that awful night, just to wound, just to cut John deep. He hated himself a little bit for it. 

John gaped at him. Then shook his head and laughed bitterly. “No, Sherlock. You did.”

And with that, he slammed the door. Sherlock sank down on the steps with his head in his hands, listening to John’s footsteps fade away on the concrete. 

***

Victor allowed Sherlock his space that night. Sherlock sat on the steps for hours, and Victor never bothered him. When Sherlock finally trudged back to the flat in the dead of night, exhausted and aching, Victor was asleep in bed. Sherlock left him there, closed the door so as not to wake him, and retreated to the sitting room. He picked up his violin, and played until he couldn’t hold it anymore. As dawn broke, he laid down on the sofa and fell into a fitful sleep, dreaming of John screaming at him, Mary hugging him on the tarmac, the two of them holding hands. 

When he woke, feeling completely wrung out, he discovered Victor had covered him with a blanket at some point, and left a note next to a cup of now ice cold coffee. 

Sherlock,  
Went into the office. If you can’t make it in today, please don’t worry about it. I’ll see you around 6:00pm. Hope you got some rest. And that you still take your coffee black with sugar.  
Victor

Sherlock sipped the cold coffee, toyed with the idea of going into the office, and then laid back down. All he could hear was John saying, “No, Sherlock. You did.” over and over. And he had. He had pushed John back to Mary, forced him. They’d had rows about it, in the months between when she’d shot him and when John took her back finally. John argued, said it was over, he didn’t want to be with Mary. Sherlock had told him that he still loved her, that the shooting was all a misunderstanding, that Mary wasn’t that person anymore. Finally, John had rather reluctantly acquiesced, agreed to take her back. Sherlock thought he would be happy. That they all would be. What had he done? 

Lost the love of your life, you bleeding moron, said the Sherlock in his head. 

“Shut up.” He growled out loud.

He spent most of the day on the sofa, fading in and out of sleep. Victor came back when he said he would, left Sherlock alone most of the evening, not trying to convince him to eat or talk to him, as John would have. He worked, took a run, then a shower, and went to bed. Sherlock laid on the couch a while longer, and then dragged himself to the bedroom, shedding his dressing gown. He just wanted to forget. 

He climbed on top of Victor, kissing all over his body, finally ending up with his lips at Victor’s ear, begging to be fucked into oblivion. Victor was more than happy to oblige, and it was only after, laying there with his heart pounding and his body trembling with the aftershocks of a spectacular orgasm, that he wept for John. Victor did not hold him, but stroked his shaking back as he wept and wept until he fell asleep. When he woke in the morning, the flat was filled with the scent of coffee perking, and Victor’s footsteps in the kitchen. 

He flipped over and stared at the ceiling. What had he missed, with John? There was always something, something he didn’t get right, with every deduction. But he’d had years to deduce John, and not just deduce him, but know him. He knew John better than anyone. How could he have missed this? John had stood in the entry hall two nights past and almost flat out told him that he didn’t want Mary, with the implication being that he did want Sherlock. Now all Sherlock could think about was all the time they’d missed, the years they’d wasted, the depth of the misunderstandings between them. 

He was still laying there, hands templed under his wrinkled up nose, turning the last six years over in his mind, when Victor walked in with a steaming cup of coffee and sat down on the edge of the bed. Sherlock sat up, and Victor handed him the cup. 

“Thank you.” Sherlock smiled tightly at him, and took a sip. “Victor, I’m sorry about the last few days. I know it couldn’t have been comfortable for you.”

Victor shook his head, and made a noncommittal noise. “Don’t worry about it, Sherlock.”

They sat in silence for a moment, Victor on the edge of the bed, looking away from Sherlock, Sherlock staring out the window. 

Victor looked up at Sherlock and met his eye steadily. “You’re in love with him.”

There was no purpose in denial. “Yes.”

Victor nodded, took a sip of his coffee. “Tell me about it.”

Sherlock shook his head. “Why would you want to hear about it?” 

“Because I’m curious. Because the man I’m with is very clearly in love with someone else...someone else who is married, and pretty conflicted about his own feelings, from what I saw.” Victor smiled at Sherlock, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

Sherlock bit his lip, looked up at Victor. “Yes, it’s all very...confusing.”

“You were never together?”

“No, not in the way you mean. But, we were, have always been...more than friends. Not in a sexual way. We’re just very...something works between myself and John in a way I’ve never worked with anyone else. He understands me.” Sherlock realised, trying to explain this to someone else, that he didn’t possess the language to adequately explain what he and John were to each other. 

“And you love him.” Victor hid his face behind his coffee cup, but Sherlock saw his furrowed brow, slightly slumping shoulders.

“Victor, maybe it’s best we don’t…” The depth of his feelings for John was unexplainable, and trying to do so was only going to result in Victor being hurt. 

“No. I want to discuss this. We need to discuss this. Stop trying to spare my feelings. I’m a big boy, I can take it. Now. Tell me about John.”

Victor leaned back next to Sherlock, clearly settling in for a long story. Sherlock drank his coffee in silence. He wasn’t at all certain that he wanted to talk to Victor about John, or that he even could. Victor waited, without impatience.

Only after he’d drained his coffee cup, and Victor had silently risen without being asked and gotten him another, was he able to take a deep breath, and say, “Well, I was looking for a flatmate.”

***

Sherlock talked for almost an hour. Once he got started, he couldn’t stop. He couldn’t sit still, vaulting off the bed minutes after beginning to talk. He paced the room, rubbing his hands over his face, tugging on his hair. Victor listened, never interrupting, sipping his coffee calmly. 

“And I thought it would all go away once he was back with her, that we could just...be friends...and it would be alright. But it isn’t. And then...well, you saw us the other night. It’s all fallen apart.” Sherlock flopped down on the bed, his head on Victor’s stomach. 

“I actually cannot believe that you two were not together. I mean, I do believe you, certainly...but my. You behave like a couple, a pretty dysfunctional one, perhaps...No, I apologise, now isn’t the time to make a joke. You clearly both have very strong feelings for each other. ” Victor ran his fingers through Sherlock’s hair.

Sherlock sighed. “It’s so much more than that. We’re like...we just FIT. We were a couple, really...in every way except that we never...said it. I didn’t realise I was...the way I feel...until I saw him with Mary. I didn’t understand how deeply I loved him.”

“Why DID you push him back to her, Sherlock? If he wanted to leave her, and you loved him this much, why didn’t you let him come back to you? It seems as though he loves you in equal measure, though he’s not gay. There could have been something…” Victor trails off, questioning.

Sherlock couldn’t tell Victor what Mary had actually done, so he’d manufactured a lie about her cheating on John. It was a good enough reason to leave someone. “I don’t want to be John’s fall back. I didn’t want him to choose me because Mary had done something awful. I wanted him to choose me because he realised...what we had. So I pushed. I thought he’d push back more, I guess. I thought he’d fight harder. I don’t know. Victor, I don’t know.”

“You need to talk to him. You need to tell him exactly how you feel. You’ll never be happy - either way - until you do, you know that.” Victor was calm as ever, coffee cup paused at his lips, when he said, “It sounds like he’s the love of your life. Your - I hate this term, it’s so over dramatic - but, your soul mate.”

Sherlock had never said those words aloud, never even talked to anyone about his feelings for John before. It was startling and frightening to hear Victor use that phrase, to speak it aloud. He closed his eyes and swallowed hard. When he spoke, his voice was a croak, “He is.”

Victor stroked the side of Sherlock’s face, looking down at him with a sad smile. “Shall we go out tonight? Do something fun, yes? How about a play...there must be something not sold out in the West End.”

Sherlock sat up. “Are we still…? I figured you’d leave now that you know how I feel about John.”

Victor shrugged, his dark brown eyes a bit sad. “Sherlock, I’m not going to compete with John to be the love of your life. I think that would be rather fruitless, frankly. But I want to be with you. At least for now.”

Sherlock shook his head a little. “Victor, you amaze me, truly. I don’t know quite how to respond to that.” 

Victor leaned forward and kissed Sherlock, gently, the tip of his tongue just barely grazing Sherlock’s bottom lip. “Respond by coming to the theater with me tonight, and then we’ll come back here and I’ll shag you until you forget all about John Watson for a while, and we’ll sort the rest out later.” 

Sherlock kissed him back, hungrily, climbing over his outstretched legs, taking his coffee cup out of his hands and putting it on the bedside table. He whispered hoarsely, “Make me forget right now.” 

“Happy to.” Victor’s hands slid around to grip Sherlock’s hips, and he rolled them forward a little, a tingling heat already spreading through him. Victor closed his eyes and pulled Sherlock down to him, kissing him harshly, teeth clanging together. Sherlock moaned at the intensity of it and pulled his shirt over his head. Immediately, Victor’s hands were all over his chest and back, and Sherlock grabbed the hem of Victor’s shirt, ripping it up and off, wanting bare skin against bare skin.

Victor wrapped his hands around Sherlock’s thighs, lifted him up and threw him flat on his back, crawling on top of him. He kissed Sherlock’s stomach, worked him gently out of his pyjama bottoms, and kissed up his chest until they were face to face. “This is good, what we have, Sherlock.”

Sherlock felt a surge of true affection for him. He rubbed his hands up Victor’s muscular arms, and kissed him gently on the mouth. “It is. It’s very good.”

“I can’t be John, but this - us - could be really good, for as long as we want.” Victor reached back and drew Sherlock’s legs around him. They rocked against each other, gasping at the friction, both shivering and goose pimpled, Sherlock feeling for the first time that he was truly here with Victor, instead of just doing this to escape.

“No one can be John. But I don’t need you to be.” They kissed again, deeply, and Sherlock actually believed for just a moment that he might be able to live without John Watson.


	4. You're So Stupid Sometimes

I’m sorry again about last week. Sorry I shouted at you. And Victor. Please talk to me. JW

Sherlock, I am really very sorry. Can we please meet up for a chat? JW

Okay, look, I know you’re really angry at me, but can you please answer me? This is the fortieth text I’ve sent you in 3 days. Starting to feel a bit pathetic now. JW

I am quite angry at you, yes. SH

Well, answering me, that’s a start, yeah? JW

It’s a start. SH

Can we meet up? Please. JW

Alright. Baker Street. Tomorrow. 5:00 ok? SH

Yes. I’ll be there. Can I let myself in? JW

Of course. SH

***

At 5:00pm on the dot, John turned the key in the downstairs door at Baker Street. He took a deep breath. This was the first night he’d been back since that horrible row now almost two weeks previous. He walked into the flat, called for Sherlock. No answer. He must be running behind. 

The flat felt different, foreign. There was definitely a presence of Victor now - a box of tea Sherlock didn’t drink, a jacket far too big to be Sherlock’s tossed over the back of John’s chair - MY chair - the smell of some kind of expensive cologne lingering in the air. A surge of absolute hatred, and John was aware, writhing jealousy, rose up in him. This was HIS flat, HIS...Sherlock. 

John was just reaching for the jacket to move it, when a familiar Yoo Hoo sounded in the hall, and Mrs Hudson was suddenly stepping through the door. She didn’t look shocked to see him. 

“John. Sherlock said you were coming by. It’s so lovely to see you, dear. How’s Mary?”

“Mrs Hudson, it’s lovely to see you, too, and I really do not want to talk about Mary.” John breathed out hard, and moved the jacket to Sherlock’s chair. God, no, that was all wrong, too. He picked it up and tossed it on the sofa, which was at least a relatively neutral space.

“Fair enough, dear, fair enough. You haven’t been by much…” She trailed off, wandering into the kitchen and starting to tidy up seemingly absently. 

“No. Sherlock and I have been...fighting.” John tried to stop his voice from catching, but he didn’t quite succeed. 

“Marriage does change a friendship. It’s inevitable, John.” Mrs Hudson turned sympathetic eyes on him, and suddenly he was blinking back tears. 

“It’s not that...it’s something else. I don’t know.” He heard his voice tremble embarrassingly. No one but Sherlock could bring this out in him. Christ, the only time he even cried on his wedding day was when Sherlock was giving his speech. Sherlock. It always somehow came back to Sherlock. Everything did. 

Mrs Hudson crossed the sitting room and laid a hand on John’s arm. She stared at him a long moment. “John. You love him.”

“Well, of course I do. He’s my best friend.” It was his stock response, and it felt that way. Canned, without meaning. Sherlock was so much more than that, and Mrs Hudson, more than anyone, knew that. 

She looked at him, unconvinced. There was a weight to this moment. John could see every speck of dust swirling in the air. It felt like time was slowing. 

Mrs Hudson blinked, squeezed his arm. “Oh John.” She shook her head. “You’ll never realise, will you?”

She gave him a motherly peck on the cheek, squeezed his arm, and walked out the door. Why had she even come up?

“Realise what? What, Mrs. Hudson?” He followed her into the hallway, desperate for her to just spit it out. She was halfway down the steps. “Mrs Hudson, realise what?” 

“John. I’ve tried to tell you in every way possible for six years. You’re not the brightest man sometimes.” She shook her head at him again, disappearing down the steps and into her flat. 

He stood there, hands gripping the railing tightly, knowing exactly what Mrs Hudson was trying to say. He had always known what everyone was trying to say. He had just always refused to acknowledge it. 

He bit into his lip. Everyone thought he was in love with Sherlock, that they were together. But it wasn’t. It wasn’t. Just a very intense friendship. He nodded to himself. Yes, like he had with guys in the war. Intense, been through thick and thin together. Been through death together. Seen horrible shit together. It bonds people in a different way. 

But that wasn’t the same. 

John never had the possessive feelings about any of them that he had about Sherlock. Hadn’t wanted to be their only friend, their only everything. Never got painfully jealous (why does your phone make that noise? 57 texts… You have a girlfriend???). Didn’t feel the inexplicable urge sometimes to stroke their hair, to pull their heads into his lap when they were upset. To protect them from any kind of hurt, to punch people who called them names, to be their shield against the pain of just living. 

He’d never dreamt of any of his army buddies curled beside him, their breath on his face, whispering in his ear...

He blinked furiously, rubbed his hands over his face. “Fuck.” He said aloud. 

His phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out, expecting it to be Sherlock. It was Mary.

Coming home soon, sweets? I’ve made dinner. Mary

Sorry. Must have forgotten to mention I’m having dinner with Sherlock tonight. Go ahead and eat without me. John

You could have mentioned this before now. Mary

I thought I had. Sorry. John

We really need to have a talk, John. Mary

What now? John

You never eat. At least not with me. Mary

Can we discuss this later? John

She didn’t respond. That’s fine, John thought. He would deal with that particular fallout some other time. As he was tucking his phone away, the front door creaked open. A ball of nervousness settled in his stomach. He truly didn’t want to have another row with Sherlock. He just wanted to see him, to sort this whole mess out. Momentarily frozen in the hallway, he couldn’t decide whether to go down and meet him or go back in the sitting room. 

A dark head of hair rose into view. But it was all wrong, hair too short, skin too dark. Oh, fuck. 

Victor raised his eyes to John, and his head pulled back just a little in surprise. He recovered quickly, however, and smiled in an almost genuine way. “Hello again, John.”

“Hello.” The ball of nervousness at thinking it was Sherlock had turned cold and leaden, and he tried to make his voice sound less angry than he felt.

“I’m not staying. I know you and Sherlock are having an evening. I just came by to pick up a few things I left here.” Victor smiled again, white teeth shining, and went into the flat by the kitchen door, rather than push past John. 

How terribly polite of him, John thought. And unbidden image of him rocking between Sherlock’s legs burst into his mind, and he ground his teeth together, fighting the urge to actually smack the side of his head like an old television set. 

John pounded his palm on the railing instead and breathed in. “Victor. I’m sorry about the other night. I was just, uh, caught really off guard.”

Victor was in the sitting room, gathering papers off the desk. He swiveled his head to look at John. John expected a challenge in his eyes, but there was none. “Thank you.”

They stared at each other for a moment. John had no idea what to say to this man. Where the hell was Sherlock? It was 5:30 now. 

He hated to ask, he really, truly hated to ask Victor anything about Sherlock, but since it seemed he had to make conversation anyway...“Any idea where Sherlock’s got to? We were supposed to meet here at five.”

“He was behind me at the office, probably got lost in some detail and is still there. Probably doesn’t even realise I’ve left.” He laughed a little, and John fought the instinct to laugh with him. Them, these two men who knew Sherlock so intimately. Well, Victor certainly more intimately than I do, thought John, with a surge of jealousy so strong it nearly choked him. 

“Shall I text him for you?” Victor was reaching into his pocket.

“No. I can text him myself, thanks.” John reached for his phone so quickly that he fumbled it and dropped it on the floor. Shit. 

“John, we can be friendly, you know.”

“No, you know, I don’t think we can.” Anger coalesced in John’s chest, pushing the breathe out of his lungs. 

“I don’t see why not. We’re not in competition with each other. We both care about Sherlock, we both…”

John knew he was clenching his hand. It was hurting and trembling. Christ, why couldn’t he control himself anymore? He felt like a geyser going off constantly. Therapy. He really needed to get back to therapy. With everything that had gone on over the last year, he was a disaster. 

“Victor, with all due respect, I don’t want to be friends with you.”

“I know.” Victor tucked the papers into a binder, and gave John what seemed like a sad smile. “But Sherlock would want us to be, and I would think that would matter to you.”

John did a double take, closed his eyes, jaw tight. “I don’t think you have any right to tell me what Sherlock would want. You haven’t known him in years. You were TOGETHER at uni, a million years ago. Where were you the last six years? Nowhere. Where were you when we had a fucking funeral for him, okay? Don’t tell me about Sherlock. He and I have been through the fucking trenches together.”

“I understand that, John. I’m not trying to degrade your friendship in any way. I just thought, you and Sherlock being such good friends, that you would want to have a harmonious relationship with me. Just to make things easier on him.” Victor started to walk past him into the kitchen, but before he could even think about it, John thrust his arm out, hitting Victor square across the chest. 

A flash of anger showed in those brown eyes for just moment. “John. Please trust me when I say you do not want to start a fight with me.”

“Don’t I?” John wanted to start a fight with someone. Anyone. He wanted to punch someone bloody, feel cartilage crunching under his knuckles, taste his own blood in his mouth. He was so fucking tired of holding it in, so tired of monitoring himself, only letting a tiny bit out before he had to rein it back in. To lose himself in anger, rage, to just beat the shit out of someone. He hadn’t done it in years, and now his muscles were shaking, jaw clenched so hard it was giving him a headache. 

“No. You don’t. You’ll lose the fight, and you’ll lose Sherlock, too.” Victor sounded so calm, so confident, the sound of his voice turned John’s anger into something seething, visceral. 

He shook his head violently, teeth grinding. “Don’t say that to me. You don’t know anything about us. NOTHING. You have no idea what we’ve been through together, what we would do for each other. And you certainly don’t know I’d lose the fight.”

“John, I have three stone and a head of height on you. I work out five days a week. You’d lose.”

“Fucking try me then.” His fingernails were cutting into his palms. 

“I have absolutely no desire to hit you, alright? I’m going to go now, so you and Sherlock can talk. Excuse me.” He pushed John’s arm away, almost gently.

John felt like he was about to explode. This man’s calm was completely infuriating. They stared at each other, John shaking and biting his lip raw, Victor almost sympathetic, sorrowful. And the front door opened again. Something about the click of the door snapped the tension. They both knew it was Sherlock, and John definitely didn’t want Sherlock to find him beating the crap out of Victor. They turned away from each other, Victor slipping into the kitchen. 

He heard that familiar two step at a time flight up the stairs, and his heart contracted a bit. You do not love him like that, John. You just don’t. It’s just because you miss him. 

But then Sherlock appeared in the doorway, hair windblown, pale cheeks ruddy from the cold. His eyes were sparkling, and when he saw John standing there, his face broke into a reluctant grin. John grinned back, feeling like his chest was going to crack open. He’d never been so relieved and joyful to see anyone in his life. 

“I got…” Sherlock waved his hand in that dismissive way he had.

“Distracted?” John felt the smile on his face was about to make his skin pop open. He’d gone from rage to delirious happiness in about twenty seconds flat. Therapy. He definitely needed to get back to therapy. 

“Yeah.” Sherlock gave him that half smile, all dimples and laugh lines. But his eyes were wary, guarded. They watched each other. 

Victor stepped out of the kitchen. “Sherlock, I was just going. Had to pick up a few things.”

The grin fell off Sherlock’s face. His eyes went from the binder in Victor’s hands to his face. “Hello. I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“I just wanted to - “

“Come in the kitchen with me for a moment. John, excuse us.” Sherlock put his hand in the small of Victor’s back to steer him into the kitchen, and John had to look away. 

John bit down on the inside of his cheek to keep himself from saying something awful that would ruin everything, and walked over to the window next to the sofa. He kept his back to them, every muscle in his body trembling from the effort of not speaking.This man, in his flat, with his - his brain paused, not knowing what word to use, what fit there - his...Sherlock, sitting in his chair, using his tea cup. It made him feel physically sick. 

He strained to hear the conversation in the kitchen, but all he could make out was the rise and fall of their voices.

“Victor. You didn’t have to come over.” Sherlock couldn’t decide whether he was touched or annoyed. Bit of both. 

Victor’s mouth twitched. “Sherlock, I’m sorry. I just, wanted to make sure you were going to be alright.”

“With JOHN? There’s no one I’m more alright with. What on earth did you think he would do?” 

“I don’t know, he seems like a pretty angry person. He just tried to pick a fistfight with me not two seconds before you walked in the door. I don’t know what he would do.” Victor hissed, eyes flicking towards John’s back across the sitting room. 

Sherlock shook his head. “John would never hurt me.”

“Forgive me, Sherlock, but it seems like he already has.” 

“Well, forgive me, Victor, but I assure you that I’ve hurt him just as badly. I know you care about me, and I truly appreciate it, I do. But John and I…” Sherlock paused, his head full of thoughts he couldn’t organise properly. John and I are best friends, in love, the only people that understand each other this way, soul mates. John and I are perfect together. John and I can’t even be in the same room together without shouting. John and I are everything. He sighed. 

“John and I are just fine. We need to talk, alright? You go on back to your flat and I’ll text you later. Thank you for the concern.” 

Victor’s eyes were sad, resigned as he wrapped a hand around the back of Sherlock’s head and kissed him gently. “I won’t wait up.”

“No, don’t.” Sherlock said softly, drawing his thumb over Victor’s bottom lip. They looked at each other for a moment, Victor’s eyes searching, looking for some kind of reassurance, but Sherlock just kissed him again, softly, and when Victor went to pull away, Sherlock took his face between his hands and drew him in. Victor sighed and slipped his arms around Sherlock. 

Victor’s beard scratched his chin as Sherlock turned his head, deepening the kiss. Victor traced Sherlock’s lips with his tongue, hands sliding up into Sherlock’s hair. They kissed until Sherlock felt sure John was about to walk into the kitchen, the thought of which filled him with dread. He touched Victor’s bottom lip with both of his, and pulled back. Victor seemed reluctant to let go, his hands roaming over Sherlock’s back, sliding his face beside Sherlock’s so his nose was in his hair. 

“Victor, stop…” 

Victor’s lips were at his ear now, tentative and questioning, but there. One hand slid down to Sherlock’s hip, and suddenly they were walking backwards, until Victor had Sherlock up against the fridge. “I would never hurt you, Sherlock. I never have, have I?”

Sherlock pushed gently at his stomach until he stepped back. He smiled at him, but Victor didn’t return it. 

“No. You haven’t. It seems always that it’s me hurting you.” Their hands met, and Sherlock brought Victor’s knuckles to his lips. “I’ll talk to you later, alright?”

“Alright. I hope you two...sort it out.” Victor brushed his hand over Sherlock’s cheek, without meeting his eye, and walked out of the kitchen. 

John looked up at the sound of footsteps, to see Victor’s back retreating through the doorway, Sherlock looking a bit contemplative. He turned round to face John. The front door closed hard downstairs, and Sherlock cringed.

“So sorry about that. Hi.” He said, striding towards John and smoothing the front of his jacket. 

“Hi.” It was such a familiar gesture, such a Sherlock thing to do, that little smoothing of his clothes, John’s stomach fluttered. Christ, he missed him. 

“Have a seat, John. Tea?” 

John lowered himself into his chair, feeling suddenly nervous. What were they actually going to talk about? He hadn’t considered content much. All he had been able to think about was getting to see Sherlock, breaking through the wall between them. The actual conversation was a blank. 

“No, no, I’m fine, thank you.”

Sherlock sat down in his chair, toed off his shoes, and curled his legs under him. It could have been the beginning of any one of a hundred nights that had passed previously. Them in their chairs, books and papers strewn around, a fire cracking and creaking in the fireplace, smiling at each other and talking over the top of laptop screens. Except it wasn’t at all. 

The atmosphere now was completely the opposite of that casual companionship. It was tense. Anxious. The smiles they’d shared at seeing each other had given way to the reality of being estranged from each other, of not knowing how to start this conversation. Sherlock’s long toes were tapping against the leather. He kept scratching his scalp. John was picking at his cuticles.

“So, what did you want to talk about, John?” God, how he wanted to slip to the floor, wrap his arms around John’s legs, keep him here forever. His voice was cool, detached even. Inside, he was coming apart. This is why he couldn’t see John. Just John’s presence took him apart now, as it used to keep him together. But now John wasn’t his, and that made all the difference. 

“I honestly don’t know. I hadn’t really thought about it. I just...I couldn’t leave us the way it was after that row last week. I...missed you.” John’s eyes raised to look into Sherlock’s, eyes that had always been open to him. 

John inevitably, always, knew how Sherlock was feeling, even if no one else in the world could have deduced it. That was John. Sherlock deduced cases, and John deduced Sherlock. Right now, he had no idea what he saw in those translucent irises. He couldn’t read him. They were so out of sync.

“I missed you, as well.” His face was in constant motion, tongue darting, teeth biting, nose twitching, all furrowing brow and nerves. He just couldn’t look at John.

A silence fell. God, this was awkward. 

Sherlock tapped his fingers on the chair arms. John pursed his lips, sighed. He was going to have to say something, start this. 

“Why won’t you talk to me? Just tell me. I don’t care if it hurts. I don’t care how awful it is. I don’t. I don’t care what it is, I just...I have to know, Sherlock. I have to know what happened to us, because I’m in the dark here, and I don’t know what to do.” John’s skin was quivering. He felt like this conversation was the most important one he’d ever had/would have in his life, and he was terrified. He had lost Sherlock twice already and gotten him back. He wasn’t about to lose him this time without a fight. 

Sherlock rolled his lower lip in, dragging his teeth over it. Lifted his eyes to the ceiling, rubbed his hands hard through his hair. He closed his eyes, templed his hands under his nose, then suddenly jumped out of the chair, paced, sat back down. Long, silent minutes passed. The only sounds were the faint hum of traffic outside and the tick of the clock. John sat, tense and scared to speak, not wanting to interrupt whatever was going through Sherlock’s mind. 

Eventually, Sherlock turned and opened his mouth a few times before actually speaking. “John, do you remember on the tarmac?”

“Yeah, course I do.”

“When I said I had something to tell you that I always meant to.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m going to tell you now.” Their eyes met, aquamarine ones heavy and serious, and John knew he wouldn’t crack a joke this time. 

John sucked in a breath, but it wouldn’t take. The bottom half of his lungs seemed to be missing. 

“Okay, Sherlock. Tell me.” He leaned forward, perched on the edge of his chair, caught in those eyes. He knew. He knew what was coming. He’d known that day, but Sherlock hadn’t said it. 

Oh, fuck, I really can’t breathe, he thought, hand clapping over his mouth.

Sherlock took in a rattling breath. When he spoke, it was very measured. “John. I think you realise that I do not generally take to people. Nor they to me. People are deductions for me, nothing more, usually. I’ve never needed anyone. Not really.”

“Alone protects you.” John found his voice, echoing what Sherlock had said to him so many years - a lifetime - ago. 

Sherlock smiled, sadly. “Yes. It always did, anyway. Then I met you. And suddenly, none of my rather carefully constructed rules seemed to be applicable. Do you know, my first thought, when I looked up and saw you, at Bart’s? Do you know what it was?”

“No.” John croaked out, his face in his hands. 

“Usually when I see people, I just deduce them right away. The SECOND I see them. And I did that with you, too, but not the second I saw you.” There was a tremor in his voice. In John’s head, he was wrapping his arms around him, kissing it better, shushing him - It’s okay, Sherlock, it’s okay. He squeezed his eyes shut, fighting the images flooding into him. For fuck’s sake, John, you’re a married man. 

Then why are you even here? What do you want now, except that? Pieces of this puzzle, his life with Sherlock, were falling into place, clicking through John’s mind like clockwork. This was why he was here. This was what he came to hear.

“The second I saw you, I thought...I thought…” Sherlock swallowed, breathing hard. “I thought...all I could think was...I want him.”

Those words descended like night falling, heavily, changing everything, making them into something different, turning the streetlights on. Illuminating the shadows, what you can’t see in the daylight.

John had no idea what to say. 

It was Sherlock who broke the silence. “I didn’t even really understand what that meant, whether it was emotional, or sexual, or...I didn’t know. I just knew something had happened to me that had never happened before, and you were the reason why. I was determined to have you, in some way, whatever way I could. I’d never...never seen someone that way before. Whole. Just as a person. That I could want. I was so afraid you wouldn’t want me as a flatmate, that you would say no, and just fade into the ether and I’d never see you again. The idea of never seeing you again terrified me. I knew I would never stop thinking about you.”

John couldn’t take his hand away from his mouth, nor rip his eyes away from Sherlock’s. It was relief, such a relief to finally be hearing this. It was everything he hadn’t even known until tonight that he was waiting to hear Sherlock say. But it was also frightening, because John had to recognise his own feelings now, had to deal with what came after. 

Sherlock’s eyes were fixed on the fireplace mantle. He couldn’t, or wouldn’t look at John. “Yet, you did. Despite my oddities, and my mess, and me being impossible, you wanted to live here, to be with me. And after that, it all just, fell into place. We fit so well. I’d never known anyone who accepted me the way you did, who didn’t flinch at my outbursts, at my moods. But you pushed me, too. You always try to make me better, John, because you believe I can be. No, that hadn’t escaped me. And then, at Baskerville, after, after everything was over, and you were so forgiving, about the sugar, the...drugging...and all of that. I couldn’t believe you forgave me so easily. I half expected you to leave, never talk to me again. But you didn’t. You yelled at me, and then you laughed, and then it was alright again. And that was when I realised...that I loved you. That I was IN love with you.”

Sherlock stopped talking and sank into his chair, making almost a gagging noise. John looked up at him, alarmed, and his chest was heaving, shoulders near his ears. He looked like he was going to be sick. This kind of emotion was almost impossible for him to bear. John wanted to reach out, to touch him, help him, but he felt paralysed. Sherlock’s head snapped up, his eyes wide and afraid. John closed his, unable to look at him. 

He swallowed, his chest feeling hollow and painful. There was an ache at the back of his throat.

“John, say something.” There was a pleading tone in Sherlock’s voice that John had rarely heard, the sound of which burrowed deep inside him, painfully. Why were they constantly hurting each other? 

There were so many things happening in John’s head at once, he couldn’t isolate anything enough to vocalise it. Sherlock was staring at him, boring a hole through him, waiting. Waiting for rejection, for disapproval. John could see it on his face - tensed and furrowed, mouth in a straight line. 

Finally, in a voice barely above a whisper, “Why didn’t you say anything? God, Sherlock. Why? You always told me you didn’t...that you weren’t interested. WHY?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know...I thought you wouldn’t want me. I didn’t want to ruin our friendship, lose you. I thought I would lose you if I said anything.” Sherlock covered his face with his hands and fell backwards, loose limbed and emotionally wasted.

“I would have. Fuck, I would have, Sherlock.” John was, too, exhausted by all of this. Already. “I would have wanted you. I DID want you. I loved you.”

Sherlock made a derisive noise, eyes flashing. “Oh really? Well, then why did you always tell me - and everyone else - that you’re not gay and that we CERTAINLY weren’t together? You made that point EXTREMELY clear.”

“Well, I’m not gay. And we WEREN’T together. It wasn’t a lie. But, for you...it would have been different. For you, fuck, Sherlock, it would have been so different.” John hadn’t realised the truth of that until he was saying it out loud. But, he understood suddenly, so powerfully that he felt weak in the knees, Sherlock would have been the exception, the difference. It didn’t matter who John wanted to sleep with normally, what his sexuality was. It was about loving Sherlock. Which he realised now, he always had. Not just loved him. They were two halves of the same soul. It was impossible for John Watson to exist without Sherlock Holmes. 

John glanced at Sherlock, feeling his eyes must absolutely be glowing with love, some kind of light having made a home in his chest. He understood now. He really had loved Sherlock all along, and he’d just been fighting it. Sherlock, however, looked furious. 

“Well, how was I supposed to know that, when you’re constantly screaming to the heavens that you’re straight as an arrow?!” Sherlock was definitely shouting now, and had jumped from his chair, pacing the floor. 

“Well, fuck, Sherlock, I didn’t even know you’d had sex! I didn’t even know you liked it. You kept telling me it wasn’t your fucking area and that you were a goddamned sociopath! How was I supposed to think I even had a shot in hell?! Why would I even bother to try??” John was standing now, too, shaking with anger. He wasn’t even sure why he was so angry. 

“Because you KNEW I wasn’t! You knew me better than anyone. I’d never let someone in like that before! Never. I let you IN. Fuck, John, why on earth would you think I was ACTUALLY a sociopath?! How could you believe that?” Sherlock was flapping around as he did when he got agitated, hands flapping, digging into his hair, fiddling with the window curtains. 

“Well then, why do you SAY that all the time? If you don’t actually want people to believe it?” John felt increasingly like the conversation was exploding around him. There were so many things, SO many things, they’re never talked about, never said, this had the potential to just detonate. Too many words trying to tumble off his tongue at the same time. Nothing was making sense. 

“You’re not PEOPLE. You’re John. You’re...my John. And I thought…” Sherlock lapsed silent, his eyes terribly sad. “Why didn’t you know that wasn’t true?”

“I don’t know. I did know it wasn’t true, or I hoped, anyway. I didn’t think you were, I kept...seeing through it, seeing YOU. The Sherlock that makes me laugh, and cares about making people happy, whether he wants them to know it or not. Who bought me beer when I broke up with someone, and watched movies with me I know you hated, or always held the cab door for me, brought home milk for my coffee...but then you would throw up this wall, and tell me you didn’t have feelings, and...Christ, what was I supposed to think?” John balled his fists into his eyes, pressing until he saw spots. He was getting indigestion, acid bubbling into his throat. Sherlock was so infuriating. 

“John, I...you liked me that way.” It was the absolute wrong thing to say. Sherlock knew it the moment it was out of his mouth. John’s entire face changed, his eyes went hard and closed. 

“You fuck. So it’s all my fault, AGAIN.” John smiled that deadly smile, nostrils flaring, and Sherlock kicked himself for saying that. 

He held his hands out, palms up to John in supplication. “No, that’s not what I meant. I just meant that we were fine that way, we were good. We got along, just the way we were. We fit, so perfectly.”

“Yes. We did.” John was full of regret so deep it was physically painful. His cheek was bloody, chewed raw. “We fit together so, SO perfectly. And we could have been so much more. If you had just said something. And then you left me. For two years. Why did you not trust me to let me know you were alive? I fucking lost my SHIT, Sherlock. Losing you BROKE me. But apparently, it was all a big goddamned joke that John wasn’t in on - “

“I’ve apologised for that, over and over, John. What else should I say?” 

“That you were WRONG. That you should have told me!”

They were circling each other now, like cats getting ready to pounce. John was shaking, down to his core. Vibrating through his bones. Raw emotion seethed through him, not only anger, but everything, all of this laid bare finally. It was too much, way too much. 

“I should have told you, alright? I was wrong, John. I was. I should have told you everything. It was wrong of me not to trust you. You deserved better than that. Okay?” Sherlock willed himself to not shout. He meant it. He knew he should have told John. It was a mistake, a miscalculation. John would have been able to keep it quiet, he realised that now. He wanted John to know he truly meant this, as angry as he was. 

John bit his tongue, jaw muscle pulsing. He snapped out, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” 

Eyes locked, they stood there. The seconds ticked by, and finally John looked at the floor. 

“So you love me. That’s why you won’t see me. Makes a lot of sense, Sherlock.” John turned away, anger ebbing for the moment, planted his hands on his hips. 

“Yeah, it does, John. You’re not mine. Not anymore. And it...hurts.” Sherlock bit the word out, sour and bitter and ugly on his tongue. 

“Well, I didn’t choose that. You chose it for me. And I listen to you, every time. Because I…” John decided to just give in. Just give in to the tears, the pain threatening to tear his throat apart. A choked sob lurched out, and suddenly his eyes were wet. “Because I fucking love you so much that I always do what you want, even if I hate it.”

“I was trying to give you what you want!” Sherlock grabbed John’s shoulder and whipped him around so they were facing each other. 

“Well, I don’t want her! I only wanted her because you were dead! Because the alternative...because I was so DEAD inside, Sherlock. Without you, I was so...she was just - a substitute. For you. I can’t be with her anymore, Sherlock. It’s just so...empty.” Oh fuck. All these things were just spilling out of his mouth, these truths, and he didn’t mean to be saying them this way. Everything was happening at once. 

Sherlock gaped at him. “John?”

“Fuck, you’re so stupid sometimes. I’M so stupid. I can’t...I didn’t see it before, okay? Well, I did see it, but I just couldn’t…act on it.” He dragged his hands through his hair, pulling, making it hurt. Think, John, shit, you sound like a moron. 

“It’s so intense, this between us, it’s so…it just happened. You just HAPPENED to me, like a fucking avalanche. Do you think that was an everyday occurrence for me? To meet someone, to agree to live with them, work with them, and then kill someone to save their lives, all in the matter of a DAY? Christ, Sherlock, you made the world stop. My whole life became about you. My whole damn life.” He looked around the room, as if looking for the answer, looking for the words he couldn’t seem to say. “I didn’t know how to define it. I’ve never felt this way about anyone, ever. It was...confusing. I didn’t know what I felt, how to understand it. But I understand it now. I’ve never felt so connected to anyone, Sherlock. It’s like a physical pain when you’re not with me. You’re in my SOUL, Sherlock.”

“Me, too, John.” Eyes pooled with tears, Sherlock’s hand was still on John’s shoulder. He allowed his hand to brush the bare skin of John’s neck, and he shivered. 

He closed his eyes, gathering himself, and when he opened them, Sherlock was looking at him with so much tenderness that it hurt. Without thinking about what he was doing, he reached up and smoothed his thumb over one of those exquisite cheekbones. Sherlock’s eyes fell shut and he nudged his face against John’s hand. 

“I love you. I do. I love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone. You’re...so difficult.” John couldn’t believe he was saying these things, they were so unlike him, but he couldn’t hold it in. It was as if six years’ worth of bottled up words were just spilling out of him. 

“Difficult isn’t usually a compliment, John.” Sherlock laughed a little, despite it all. 

“I just mean...I love you because you’re difficult. Because you’re infuriating, and you make mistakes, and you always try to do the right thing, even though you don’t want anyone to think you do. Because I do, too. Because even our flaws fit together. Because I love every part of you, even the ugly, complicated parts.” 

“I feel the same, John.”

“I don’t need you to be perfect, Sherlock. I just need you to be mine again.” John wiped away the wetness at the corners of Sherlock’s eyes. 

“Being your best man was horrible.” Sherlock whispered, eyes still closed. 

“I know. I’m sorry I asked that of you.” He needed Sherlock closer. He slipped his hand around to the back of his neck and pulled him down so their foreheads were touching. They leaned into each other. 

“That was the worst day, watching you marry her. Pretending to be happy about it. I hated you.” Sherlock’s nose lined up against John’s.

“I know. I’m so sorry, Sherlock.” His thumb was rubbing along Sherlock’s jaw. If he just tilted his chin forward, their lips would be touching. It would be so easy. A shiver rippled through him at the thought. 

“What are we going to do? John? What are we going to do?” Sherlock needed John to lead him, to tell him. 

“I don’t know, Sherlock. I don’t know. We’re both...we’re both with other people. It’s going to be complicated.” 

“But...do you want this? Please tell me you want this.” Sherlock’s breath was hot against John’s mouth, his hand came to rest against John’s stomach. They were still nose to nose, eyes shut, unable to move away from each other. 

“Yes. God, yes, I do. We can’t carry on like this.”

“No, we can’t.”

“Do you love Victor?” John almost choked over his name. He took his forehead away from Sherlock’s and leaned back enough that he could see his face clearly. He needed to look into his eyes for this.

Sherlock opened his eyes, and looked at John steadily. “No. I care about him very much, and he’s lovely and kind, but no. There’s only ever been one person for me.”

John couldn’t help the smile that crept onto his face, even though his stomach was in knots. He brushed a curl off of Sherlock’s forehead, letting his fingers trail down the side of his face. 

“Do you love Mary?” Sherlock’s gaze didn’t waver. 

John swallowed. “Yes. And no. I love what we used to be, but she was always...not you. Once you came back, everything with her kind of - faded. Even before this.” John laid his hand over where he knew the scar was on Sherlock’s chest. “That was almost impossible to forgive, but I did, eventually. That’s not why I don’t want to be with her. I just...There’s only ever been one person for me, too.”

Sherlock reached down and touched John’s hand, fingertips grazing across his wrist. “So, what do we do now?”

“God, I don’t know, Sherlock.” Fingers closed around Sherlock’s hand, twisting together, fitting perfectly together. Pulled their bodies together. God, the air was heavy, thick. He could smell Sherlock’s shampoo, his skin. The world had shrunk to this, to Sherlock’s hand, the side of his neck, covered in freckles, the smell of him, the sound of him breathing. “I know what I want to do.”

“What do you want to do, John?” Sherlock’s voice, deep and resonant, all around him. 

“I want to be with you. I do. I know we’re both with other people, but this, US, this is right, Sherlock. I can’t live the rest of my life not being with you.” His face rubbed into Sherlock’s neck. “I want to come home. I want to wake up to horrible weird smells in the kitchen, and I want to be on cases with you. I want to watch crap telly together, and yell at you about the shopping. I want to get in rows about board games, and I want to laugh about it later. I want you to stomp around like a ridiculous child when you’re bored, and I want to be there to see it. I want our life back, Sherlock.”

“As do I, John.” Sherlock’s voice trembled.

“I want other things, too.” John was surprised at the lust in his own voice. 

Sherlock grinned slowly, tongue darting out. “I want other things, too. Very much. So, we’re really going to do this, John?”

“I can’t be away from you any more, and we can’t be friends.”

“No. We can’t.”

“Come here.” His hand snaked around the back of Sherlock’s head and pulled him down. Sherlock didn’t resist, falling into John’s embrace and wrapping his arms around him. They melded together, John fitting perfectly within the contours of Sherlock’s body.

John had always assumed kissing a man would somehow be radically different from kissing a woman, but it wasn’t. Soft lips met his own, warm and wanting, long arms tightened around him, and immediately they were completely lost in each other. John’s heart was thudding a mile a minute, as Sherlock parted his lips gently and moaned into his mouth. He hadn’t even known how much he needed this, until it was happening, until Sherlock pressed against him was filling all the empty spaces inside him, pushing away all the demons. This, with Sherlock, what he’d always been trying to resist, was what he’d needed all along.

They stumbled backwards, John’s right knee hitting the edge of the coffee table, and fell onto the sofa, a tangle of legs and arms, Sherlock’s hands in John’s hair. Biting, pulling at each other’s lips, kissing hard enough to bruise, sighing each other’s names every time their lips parted for just a moment, their noses bumping. Hands pushing up jumpers, tugging at shirt hems, pulling at belt buckles. It was going far too fast. Six years of repression were making them frantic with need. 

John pulled back, breathless, and put his fingers to Sherlock’s lips, which were raw with stubble burn. “We have to stop. Wait, just...Let’s just wait a second.”

Sherlock shook his head, surged forward, arching up into John’s lap. “I don’t want to stop…”

John diverted him, pushing him backwards gently, pulling his head down to tuck it under his chin. “I don’t either. I want to do this all night, but we should just slow down a bit. We’ve waited for six years, we can wait a few more days to get this right. I want to get it right. Yeah?”

A dissenting growl sounded against his chest, but Sherlock settled in, twisting a leg in between John’s and rubbing his face against his jumper. “John, you’re a very capable kisser.”

John laughed. “Capable? That’s not very enthusiastic. Should I feel insulted here?”

“Trust me, I am very enthusiastic. You’re good. Very good.” Sherlock tilted his head up and touched his lips to John’s throat, slid a hand up, fingers trilling over John’s pulse. 

John squeezed him tight, resting his cheek against the top of Sherlock’s head. “I love you. Christ, that feels good to say.”

“It feels good to hear.” 

“Sherlock. You’re going to have to break up with Victor.” Hand up and down Sherlock’s back, just because he could now, because this was allowed. 

“That’s going to be awful. Victor’s so kind to me. And we have quite a history. This will be the third time we’ve parted ways.” Sherlock murmured, mouth still on John’s skin. 

“I have to break up with my wife. That’s going to be hellish. And terrifying. I hope she doesn’t decide to shoot me.” John laughed ruefully.

“That was a horrible joke, John.” Sherlock didn’t sound amused. 

“It was, god, it really was. Sorry.” John sighed, and they both lapsed into silence. Sherlock moved down until he was curled on the floor between John’s legs, his head in his lap, arms wrapped around his knees. John absently stroked his hair, both lost in their own thoughts. 

They stayed that way for over an hour, until John’s phone buzzed loudly. He shifted enough to pull it from his pocket, but left one hand on Sherlock’s head, not wanting him to move. 

“It’s Mary. I should go, Sherlock. We both have people to explain this to.” John’s whole body was resisting his words. He wanted nothing more than to stay with Sherlock all night, never leave this flat again. 

“Don’t. Don’t go. No.” Sherlock nuzzled into John’s thigh, making soft sleepy noises.

“I don’t want to, I really don’t. But, Sherlock, if I’m to come home to stay, I have to do the hard stuff first. And so do you. You said yourself that you care about Victor. You have to talk to him, and I have to talk to Mary. Time to be grownups, love.” The endearment slipped off John’s tongue as if it wasn’t the first time, as if the whole world hadn’t shifted in the last two hours. Because, in most ways, it hadn’t. This is what they’d always been, their bond soul deep, partners in everything. All that had changed was that they were finally acknowledging it.

Sherlock sat up reluctantly. “Fine. When are you coming back?”

“As soon as possible. I want to come home to you.” They kissed again, tender and deep, and John ruffled Sherlock’s hair. “I love you. I’ll text you later tonight, okay?”

“Okay.” Sherlock flopped down on the sofa with a pout, and John couldn’t help but grin as he left the flat. Sherlock’s brattiness always made him inexplicably amused.

The grin left his face quickly, though, contemplating the conversation he was about to have with Mary. He hailed a cab, a knot of dread settling in his stomach. This was going to be ugly.

Inside 221B, Sherlock was flat on his back, hands templed, wondering how on earth he was going to tell Victor.


	5. The Hard Stuff

It was after 11:00pm when Sherlock finally roused himself off the sofa to get his phone and text Victor. There were messages from John. 

I miss you already. JW  
Did that actually happen? JW  
You’re still on the sofa, aren’t you? You’re probably asking me to fetch your phone for you. JW  
Well, I’m going in to talk to Mary. Good luck with Victor. I love you. JW

He grinned, a giddiness suffusing through him. This was how it was going to be now. I love you’s at the end of texts, silly messages from John for no reason, distracting things that would make him sloppy and thick. The thought made him unreasonably happy. 

That actually happened, John. I miss you, too. Come back. NOW. SH

John didn’t reply. He was probably in the middle of a wretched row with Mary. Well. No more putting it off, then. Time to talk to Victor. He began to text him, and then John’s voice suddenly rang out in his head. A text? Really, Sherlock? You can’t text the man that you’re about to break up with. Ring him.

It rang only once, and Victor’s deep voice was on the other end. He must have had his phone in his hand.

“Sherlock.”

“Hello, Victor.” Shit, his voice already sounded regretful. Victor would immediately know what was happening. “Can I come to your flat?”

“Of course. Worked things out with John?” 

“I’ll be there soon, okay? We’ll talk when I get there.”

“Sherlock, if this is what I think it is, just tell me now.”

“I want to see you. I’ll be there soon.” He pressed END before Victor could argue further. He really did want to see him, to explain. Not five hours ago, they’d been kissing in the kitchen. A wave of sadness swept over him. Victor was such a stalwart friend, and Sherlock was always causing him pain.

***

“I always knew, you know. I knew you were in love with him, even before he came back. The way you would talk about him…” Mary was much less angry than John had expected. She seemed almost to be relieved. 

“How could you have known? I barely knew myself.” John was already packing clothes. While she wasn’t screaming or yelling at him, she’d made it clear he was to be out. She leaned against the doorframe of the bedroom, arms crossed, watching him. 

She snorted a laugh. “John, you aren’t exactly poker-faced. In fact, you’re one of the most easily read people I’ve ever met.”

“And I’m sure you’re quite well trained in deciphering people, aren’t you?” John bit out, shoving a particularly thick jumper into his duffel. He sounded much more bitter than he intended. 

“Knew a crack about that would be coming. How long have you been holding that in?” Mary closed her eyes, let her head fall back to rest against the door. 

“Fuck, Mary, I shouldn’t have said that. Look, I don’t want this to be acrimonious, alright? I don’t hate you, I truly don’t.” He zipped the duffel and opened another bag. 

“I know that. I’m just not him. I could have never have been. No one can be the great Sherlock Holmes for you, John.” Her eyes snapped open and bored into him. 

“How am I supposed to respond to that? I’m sorry. But both you and I deserve to be with people we love completely and who love us. Would you want to spend your life with me, knowing I could never love you like that?” He finished with the second bag and threw them both over his shoulder. “Well, that’s all I can get tonight. I’ll come back and clear out tomorrow.”

They stared at each other. Their relationship had been short and fraught with lies and miseries, but it was still a marriage. A marriage that was ending. John swallowed past a sudden lump in his throat. 

“Mary, I…”

“And I, John. I did really love you, you know. I did. You’re a good man, and you’re funny, and sexy, and interesting. I think we might have been okay if Sherlock hadn’t come back.” Mary’s eyes were calm, if a bit moist. “Yes, I think we would have been alright.”

“I think so.” A dig about her past was on his lips, but he held it back. 

“I do understand. It gets so tiring pretending to be something you’re not.”

“Yes, well, I imagine you understand that feeling particularly well.” John bit into his lip. He didn’t want to restart the argument. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

Mary regarded him for a moment. “No. You shouldn’t have.”

“Mary, even with everything that happened after, and what’s happening now...you did truly help me get get past my grief over Sherlock. I won’t forget that. You were there for me in a way no one else was, and that won’t be erased, no matter what came after. Thank you for that.” It was sincere, his thanks. He was so lost when Mary came into his life, and she dragged him back to life, in a very real way. 

Mary waved a hand at him. “Let’s not get overly emotional, shall we? We’ve known each other barely two years. A blip, really. Go back to Sherlock, and I’ll go on my way, and we can forget this sorry mess even happened.”

Well, that certainly made things easier, being dismissed. John hitched the bags more firmly onto his shoulder. “Alright, then. I’ll be round for the rest of my things, and we’ll sort out the paperwork and everything later.”

Mary retreated from the doorway to allow John to pass through. He brushed by her, trying not to make contact. He was halfway through the living room before she called to him. 

“I did mean to kill Sherlock that night, you know. I mean, in the moment, I did. Or, at least, I didn’t really care one way or the other.”

“I know you did. I’ve always known.” He didn’t turn around to look at her.

There was a pause. “In the end, for what it’s worth, I was glad he survived.”

“I knew that, too. That’s why I could forgive it. Eventually.” He fingered his phone, buzzing in his pocket. It could only be Sherlock. “I’m going to go now.”

“Yes, do. Goodbye, John.”

“Goodbye, Mary.” He left without looking at her again, and pulled his phone out. 

That actually happened, John. I miss you, too. Come back. NOW. SH

He laughed, plunking out a reply with one hand.

On my way. Headed to tube station right now. I love you, you know. Bossy. JW

***

The door to Victor’s flat swung open, revealing Victor bare chested in pyjama bottoms. A brandy over ice was in the hand not holding the door, and his eyes were bloodshot. 

He smiled sadly. “Hullo, Sherlock.”

“Hello, Victor. May I come in?” Oh, shit. This was going to be more difficult even than Sherlock had thought. A weight settled in his chest, seeing the sadness in Victor’s face. 

“Course. You breaking up with me?” 

Sherlock was momentarily lost for words. “Well...yes. But let’s talk. Can we?” 

“Yes, I suppose we must.” Victor closed the door as Sherlock brushed by him, and put his hand on Sherlock’s arm. Sherlock turned, and Victor leaned in, breath smelling of alcohol, and kissed him hard. Sherlock kissed him back for just a moment, allowing his lips to answer Victor’s, an unbidden tingle racing down his spine. He gently pushed him away. 

“Victor.” He said quietly. “I can’t.”

“No goodbye fuck, Sherlock?” Victor trailed a finger down Sherlock’s neck.

“That’s rather vulgar for you, Victor. Don’t lets make this ugly. You’ve never been hurtful before.” 

“No. I haven’t.” Victor pursed his lips, looking thoughtful, and took a sip of brandy. “Then again, I’ve never really been this hurt before.”

“You knew how I felt about John, Victor. For god sakes, YOU’RE the one who told me to talk to him.” Damn. He truly hadn’t wanted to cause Victor pain. 

“That was rather stupid of me, wasn’t it?” Victor swigged at his drink, looked at Sherlock unsteadily, brown eyes sad and soft. 

“No, Victor. It was...kind. As you unfailingly are. I don’t deserve you, really.” His voice wavered a little. He had the urge to reach out and pull Victor into his arms, but that would end very badly. He clasped his hands together behind his back to keep himself from touching Victor. 

“No. You don’t. You damned difficult bastard.” Victor smiled crookedly, eyes downcast. 

He was making Sherlock feel worse with every understanding word. “Victor, we had something really lovely, but it wasn’t ever going to be forever. You had to have known that.”

“I knew it, Sherlock. And I’ll get over it, just as I did at uni. Twice. Just right now, right at this moment, it feels pretty bloody awful.”

“I keep hurting you, and I don’t mean to. I’m so sorry. I’m terrible with people.”

“Except John.”

“Even with John. He just tolerates me better than most.” 

Victor flopped down on the sofa, a long curved thing that was hideously uncomfortable. They’d tried to have sex on it a few weeks previously, and ended up laughing on the floor. He stared up at Sherlock. 

“Afraid to sit near me? I won’t bite. Unless you want me to, of course.” He flashed that dazzling smile.

“No, not afraid. I do like you so very much, Victor. I really do. You’ve been a great friend to me always. You’re just - “

“Not.John.Watson.” Victor nodded to himself, and pointed at Sherlock. “I get it. I really do. I’m just not John.”

“It’s your only fault, Victor.” Sherlock was trying for humour, but it came out all wrong, and Victor grimaced. “I’m sorry. It was meant to be funny.”

“Funny doesn’t suit you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock almost laughed out loud, remembering John saying those exact words to him years ago, during Baskerville. He managed to hold it back, though, and sank next to Victor on the sofa. 

“I won’t try it again.”

“Good man.”

They lapsed into silence. 

“I expected you to shout at me, to be angry.” Sherlock watched Victor warily, wondering if he’d just invited an explosion by saying that.

But Victor shook his head. “Sherlock, you know me. I don’t shout - that’s not my style. I am angry. Well, more sad than anything, really. I knew tonight, I knew as soon as you walked in and I saw you and John together, when you looked at each other, what was about to happen. You two are rather...inevitable.” 

“I think I’d feel better if you shouted at me.” Guilt was seeping through him, tamping down some of the exuberance from what had happened with John. 

“Well, I apologise for disappointing you, then, because I’m not going to.” A note of irritation crept into Victor’s voice. “Is that what you wanted, for me to yell and scream and cry and make a scene? I think you’ve already got John for that, don’t you? Isn’t one enough?”

Sherlock bit his tongue to keep from saying something defensive about John. This was absolutely not the time. “No, I don’t want you to make a scene, Victor. I just...I don’t know what I expected. I expected you to be angrier.”

“Well, I’m trying to keep my calm. I don’t want to shout at you. What good would that do either of us?” 

“None. I’m so sorry this worked out this way, Victor.”

“No you aren’t.” Victor snorted a laugh and looked at Sherlock with derision. “You got exactly what you’ve always wanted. You got John. Quite right, as it should be. The love of your life.”

Sherlock didn’t have a response for that, because Victor was completely right, of course. This was what he’d wanted. He just hadn’t meant to hurt Victor in the process, and it seemed every word he spoke was making it worse.

“If you want absolution, Sherlock, you don’t need it. We never had an agreement for exclusivity, and as I said before, there seems to be no room for competition with John. Stop asking me to forgive you. There’s nothing to forgive. You’ve belonged to John the whole time we’ve been together. Obviously, it was just a matter of time.” He shook the glass, and drained the rest of his drink.

Sherlock found himself unable to argue with that. Victor always had an ability to cut right to the heart of the matter, and leave no room for disagreement. “Can we still work together, Victor? Will it be a problem?”

“Sherlock, I am, if anything, a professional. I’ve made a contract with the government, which is important to my company, and to this country. I have no intention of tainting my professional reputation because my boyfriend broke up with me.” He shot Sherlock a slightly patronising look. “Yes. We can work together just fine.”

Sherlock paused and took a deep breath, considering the phrasing of his next words. “And would it be a problem if I brought John in? I do value his opinion, and - “

“And he would be hurt if he wasn’t involved.” Victor swirled his ice, refusing to look at Sherlock. 

“Yes. He would be. Moriarty tried to kill him twice. He’s got as much of a personal stake in this as I do.”

“I have no problem with John, Sherlock. He seemed to have a problem with me...though, now that you’re together, I’m assuming he’ll have no reason to want to punch me.”

“Oh, I don’t know. He might. John’s the jealous type.”

“You’re not really selling him to me, here, Sherlock.”

Their eyes met, and a small smile crept onto Victor’s face. Sherlock smiled back. 

“Look, Sherlock, I’ll be honest. I was really, extremely, happy with where we were headed. Or, where I thought we were headed. But I realise you and John are...a rather indestructible thing. I couldn’t compete with what you two have.”

Sherlock said nothing.

“We’ll be fine. I’ll drink a bit, and maybe I’ll cry, and then I’ll get over it, and I’ll seduce some beautiful young intern. You know me. I bounce back quickly.”

“I am sorry, Victor. I really am. I am glad it happened, between us.”

“Me too, Sherlock. Me too. We had fun. And some seriously good sex.” Victor laid his hand on Sherlock’s thigh and squeezed. “Go home, Sherlock. Go home to John. Don’t worry about me. I’m just going to sit here and drink until I fall asleep. And when I wake up, I’ll feel better.”

Sherlock’s gaze wandered over Victor’s face, and he leaned over, hand coming up to the side of his face, and pressed their lips together. Victor grabbed him by the collar and pulled him close, his lips parting and pushing his tongue forward between Sherlock’s. Sherlock let him, then snaked an arm around his neck, hanging on, as they kissed deeply. This was their goodbye. Finally, Victor let out a rattling breath into Sherlock’s mouth, and let his head fall backward, eyes shut.

Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, but Victor waved him off. “Oh, get out,” he said without malice. “I’ll see you - and John - at the office on Monday.”

Sherlock wanted to say something, anything, but he thought better of it. He stood up, and Victor rolled over on the sofa, turning his back on Sherlock. Victor was done with him. 

As he walked out of the flat, he pulled out his phone. There was a text from John. 

On my way. Headed to tube station right now. I love you, you know. Bossy. JW

I’m leaving Victor’s. I’ll see you at home. I love you, too. SH

***

When Sherlock walked into Baker Street, John was already there. He’d lit the fire, and fallen asleep on the sofa, bags sitting on the floor by the desk. Sherlock considered waking him, and decided against it. This night had been confusing and exhausting. All the definitions of them had been changed. They both needed a bit of space to process. Or at least, Sherlock did. 

He covered John with an afghan, and took his bags into the bedroom. He spent more than a half hour making space for John’s clothes next to his own, and then carefully and slowly unpacked for him and tucked everything away. There was a satisfying finality to having their clothes put away together. 

Eventually, Sherlock fell into his - their - bed and passed out for a few hours. When he awoke, John had gone to work at his surgery. There was a note on the bedside table. 

Missed you last night. Wish you’d woken me. I can’t wait to see you tonight. Love you. John

Sherlock rolled onto his back, eyes drifting over to the empty space in the bed. Tonight John would be in his bed, for the first time. He had half a mind to just lay in bed all day and wait, but he roused himself to go get a cup of coffee. There wasn’t any in the flat.

Standing in the queue at Cafe Nero a half hour later, he texted John.

Out of coffee. Get some on your way home? SH

Yes. Get some on my way home. JW

Did you text me just so you could say that? JW

Yes. SH

Good. I love you. See you tonight, with coffee. JW

I love you, too. SH

He stared at the texts, until there was a small throat clearing behind him.

“It’s your go, sir.” 

He looked up, and there was a good four feet between himself and the counter, a queue of annoyed people behind him, and a bored looking barista biting her nails at him. John was already making him thick. And it was fine. It was all fine.


	6. Back Where He Belongs

That first evening, with John finally back at Baker Street where he belonged, neither of them knew quite what to do with the other. They moved around each other like a planet and it’s moon, in orbit, together, but never touching. The desperate kissing between them the night before had been impulsive, borne of revelations, and six years of repressed emotion. Now that there had been time to think about what they’d chosen, there was an awkwardness that neither of them wanted to acknowledge. The parameters of their relationship had been forever altered, and they had a new reality to contend with.

They spent most of the evening working, laptops open, talking about the case, now that John was back on it, which allowed them some level of normalcy. Occasionally, John would look up and see Sherlock’s eyes fixed on him, soft and bright with affection, they would both smile, and quickly look away. Or Sherlock would feel John looking at him as he stood in the kitchen putting the kettle on, and he would turn and John would look down, a pleased grin playing on his face. It was all rather bashful, for men whose lives had always been so deeply intertwined.

But this was wholly new, and they both felt it. 

Finally, well after midnight, John’s head was lolling on his fist, mouth falling open. Sherlock tapped his knee to wake him, and he jerked, a sheaf of papers fluttering off his lap to the floor. He sniffed and yawned, stretching his arms above his head, a sliver of pale belly showing above his jeans.

“Well, I guess I’m for bed.” He looked at Sherlock, blue eyes questioning and a little unsure. “Um...you coming?”

A thrill of excitement, trepidation, and pleasure ran down Sherlock’s spine. He bit his lip, trying to force himself to be calm. He’d been anticipating this all day. “Yeah. I am.”

John smiled, his eyes bright and tender, and reached out, touching Sherlock’s hand with the tips of his fingers. Sherlock immediately took John’s hand, fitting their palms together, fingers entwined. John swallowed, looked from their hands to Sherlock’s eyes. “Well, come on then.”

He ticked his head towards Sherlock’s bedroom - no, their bedroom - and pulled on his hand. The walk through the kitchen and down the short hallway felt interminable. John turned and shut the door behind them, both standing next to Sherlock’s bed - no, their bed - as if they had no idea what happened next. They stared at each other for a moment, frozen, until John burst out laughing. “This is so ridiculous. Why are we so nervous?”

Sherlock couldn’t help but laugh, too. “It just seems…”

“New. It’s new.” John’s laughter faded, and his eyes darkened, looking up at Sherlock from under those remarkably long lashes. When he spoke, his voice was an octave deeper than normal. “But it’s still us. Like always. It’s just, a new level of us.”

Sherlock blinked, breathing hard. “I’ve been waiting for this for so long, John.”

“I know. I’m sorry for everything, Sherlock. I was a real shit there for a while, when you were, ah, with Victor.” John’s eyes shifted down. Even though they’d already talked this through, it was one of those conversations in a relationship that was going to happen again and again. John felt somehow he would be apologising for years to come. 

“Don’t be sorry, John. You had to come to this - to me - in your own way. In your own time. Though you were rather a shit for a while…” Sherlock pursed his lips and looked up at the ceiling, pretending to consider that.

“Shut up.” John said laughingly, and smacked his arm. “You’re almost always a shit. Give me some leeway.”

Sherlock grabbed his hand, and pressed a small kiss to to the soft skin of his wrist. “I would never have wanted you to choose me because you had no other option. I wanted you to figure this out yourself. I didn’t want to be a second choice, a fallback.” 

John looked horrified that Sherlock would suggest that now. “Don’t say that. Christ, Sherlock, do not say that. You’ve never been a second choice. You bloody well know that. You’ve been the most important person in my life since the moment we met. Which is exactly why you can make me completely mental.” He grinned, looking fifteen years younger, blue eyes alight. 

“Well…I do my best.” Sherlock grinned, too, and raised his arms out to John. John didn’t hesitate, swiftly stepping forward and letting Sherlock’s arms drape around him, resting his cheek against Sherlock’s shoulder and slipping his arms around Sherlock’s waist. He sighed contentedly, and Sherlock’s arms contracted more tightly around him. 

It was both foreign and familiar to hold each other like this, and they stood that way for many minutes. Still and quiet, they leaned into each other more deeply as the minutes went on, John eventually allowing Sherlock to bear most of his weight. Sherlock rubbed John’s lower back gently, allowing his fingers to fall over the curve of his bum, feeling the muscles tighten under his touch. 

John tipped his head back, looking up at Sherlock’s calm eyes, eyes that had never been this contented in John’s memory. He knew it was because of this, because of them. What was happening between them, the acknowledgement of this, after so long, brought Sherlock peace, which brought John peace. Sherlock’s face closed in, and they shared a chaste, close mouthed kiss, even that small press of lips sending tremors of anticipation through both of them.

They undressed silently, slowly, watching each other. They’d seen one another’s bodies in various states of undress, but this moment held a gravity that made them very aware of both each other’s and their own bare skin. Sherlock watched the muscles in John’s stomach stretching as he drew his tee shirt over his head. He was still dreadfully thin, his belly nearly concave. Scars crisscrossed his torso. Not only the starburst of white on his shoulder, but dozens of smaller ones, glossy and red, many from their adventures together - climbing over fences and slipping through half open gates, falling through rotten wood floors and rolling across gravel, gun in hand. Sherlock felt ownership over those scars. They were evidence of a shared life. 

Clothes crumpled in small piles on the floor, the swish of fabric the only sound in the room. Down to his pants, Sherlock climbed under the blankets, fighting a silly impulse to draw them up nearly to his chin, and instead allowed them to rest over his waist, as he turned on his side, propping his head up with his hand. He gave John what he knew was a come-hither look, and John steadily returned it, eyes smouldering. 

John slipped under slowly, watching Sherlock. “Okay? Yeah?”

Sherlock nodded. “No, not okay. It’s good. Very good.”

John’s eyes never left Sherlock’s face as he folded the pillow under his head, and scooted forward so there was less than a foot of space between them. John allowed his gaze to roam over Sherlock’s chest, trying to avoid looking at that one particular scar, eyes taking in lean muscle and too exposed bones, the jut of his collarbone, and the sunkenness of his waist between rib and hipbone. Smooth pale skin, scarred like his own. He’d never lain in bed with any man like this, and he’d wondered if curves, soft hips and plush breasts, would be missed. 

They weren’t. There was nothing missing here. Sherlock’s body was as beautiful to John as any woman’s had ever been. More so, because he knew now, Sherlock was the only person he wanted to touch this way again. What had always been between them had nothing whatsoever to do with gender, and everything to do with two souls that fit together as though they had been created to do just that. 

Sherlock put his finger to John’s lower lip, raised his eyes to meet John’s. “I can’t believe you’re really here.”

John’s smile was a bit melancholy. “I should have been here years ago. I made so many bad choices, Sherlock. I did so many things that pulled me away from you, when what I really wanted was so obviously right in front of me.”

“Shut up. We both did. It was hardly only you. I jumped off a roof and lied to you for two years remember?” Sherlock traced John’s mouth slowly with the tip of his finger, and John shivered. 

“Nope, I’ve kind of blocked that out at this point.’ John tried to sound jovial, but it came out all wrong. “Let’s stop talking about shit that makes us miserable, yeah? We’ve had enough of that for a lifetime.”

“You’re right, John. Let’s just not talk at all.” Sherlock’s fingers found John’s ear, brushing over it gently, and trailing though his hair, down the back of his neck. Eyes falling shut, John arched his neck into Sherlock’s fingertips, and pressed his forehead against Sherlock’s. 

“Just one more thing. And then we can shut up.”

“Yes, John?”

“I love you so fucking much. So much. I’m desperate for you, you know.”

“I love you, John. You know I’ve never said that to anyone else. Never.”

They fell silent, hands and eyes talking instead. Touching each other’s faces, the wonder of being here together, like this, enough for the moment. Fingertips gliding over soft lips, tracing cheekbones and eyelids, lashes fluttering shut, overwhelming to be touching each other this way at last. A kind of stillness descended over them, and time slowed, as cobalt blue eyes stared into those undefinable ones. The awkwardness faded away, leaving only the want to touch and be touched as they’d never done before. 

Their hands moved down, tracing each other’s scars, rubbing over rib cages, collarbones, hollows and angles and soft pale skin. John let out a long breath and brushed his hand up Sherlock’s neck, making Sherlock tremor and close his eyes. He laid his palm flat over the side of Sherlock’s face, fingertips brushing the helix of Sherlock’s ear, thumb over his cheekbone, and shifted, so their chests were only inches apart. 

Their bare knees bumped under the sheets, two parts of their bodies that had never come in contact before. The incidental contact that came with sharing the same bed seemed much more intimate somehow than purposeful exploration. Sherlock tried to hide to shiver that went through him at John being close to him, under sheets and wearing only thin pants, but he couldn’t quite. John smiled, his eyes twinkling, and caught his bottom lip in his teeth. 

“We don’t have to do anything tonight, you know. We can just go to sleep.” He said, trailing his fingers down Sherlock’s arm, and taking his hand, watching their fingers come together. The long, pale white against the short, brown, thick. Everything about them said opposite, even their hands. Yet somehow, they were two halves of the same person. 

“I know that. But...do you...not want to?” Sherlock tried not to sound disappointed OR relieved, when in fact, he was a bit of both. He wanted John, he did so badly, but this was also so overwhelming. It felt like everything that hadn’t happened in six years was happening in twenty four hours, and it was an enormous amount of data to process.

“It’s not that I don’t. I just...I want to do whatever feels natural. I don’t want to force anything.” John brought their hands to his breastbone, and set his chin on top of their fingers, his eyes finding Sherlock’s again. There was so much still unvoiced between them, both being men of few words, reticent and disliking overt emotionality. But when their eyes met, locked together, those words need never be uttered. It was all being said already.

“I want to kiss you. That feels natural right now.” Sherlock ducked his head toward John’s, eyes falling closed as John tilted his head up to meet Sherlock’s mouth. 

The first drag of their lips together was slow and careful, neither one wanting to push the other. John tentatively parted his lips, brushing Sherlock’s bottom lip with the tip of his tongue. Sherlock’s response was immediate and hungry, opening his mouth, head tilting to the side, and slipping his tongue into John’s mouth without hesitation. John answered eagerly, drawing Sherlock’s lower lip in between his own, nibbling gently, tongue reaching deep into Sherlock’s mouth, all hollowed cheeks and soft wet noises. The kiss quickly grew urgent, tongues more forceful, heart rates picking up, fingers twining in each other’s hair, biting and licking at each other desperately. John gripped Sherlock’s hip and pulled them together, eliciting a surprised gasp.

“Okay, Sherlock?” John breathed out, lips against Sherlock’s jaw.

“John, stop asking me if it’s okay. I’m FINE. I’ve had quite a lot of sex in the last few months, you know.”

John cringed. “Fuck, Sherlock. Oh my god. Don’t tell me about it, okay? That’s about the last thing I want to hear about right now; you having sex with another guy.”

Sherlock laughed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t...I just wanted you to know I’m really fine, with all of this. Are YOU okay?” 

He knew John hadn’t been with a man before now, and there was a lingering question in his mind about how long it would take for John to get used to the reality of it. 

“God, yes. I’m the most okay I have ever been. I mean that.” He closed the gap between their bodies, and rolled Sherlock on his back, coming to rest half on top of him, one muscular leg crooked over Sherlock’s much thinner one. The half smile on John’s face was both tender and sensual, and Sherlock thought that it was the most wonderful expression he’d ever seen. 

John danced his fingers across Sherlock’s stomach, so lightly it almost tickled, and Sherlock wriggled. John looked from his stomach to his face and laughed, his eyes crinkling up. “Oh, ticklish, eh? I’m going to learn all KINDS of new things about you, aren’t I?” 

He twitched his fingers into Sherlock’s ribcage, tickling him on purpose now, and laughing, as Sherlock laughed and wiggled under him. 

“John! Stop it! Are you twelve?” Sherlock gasped out, trying to push John’s hands away half-heartedly. This is just how he always imagined John would be in bed, playful and loving. It was perfect. Sherlock’s heart swelled, even while he was fighting him off. John kept it up, pinning Sherlock to the bed with his thighs, straddling one leg.

“No, I just like to see you squirm.” His voice was rough, laden with meaning. His fingers slowed, movements gaining pressure, stroking up and down Sherlock’s stomach and sides. Sherlock stilled, running his hands up John’s arms, clasping his hands around his neck. John’s head tipped to the side, gaze roaming from Sherlock’s navel up to his face, eyes heavy lidded, black pupils eclipsing the blue. “You are so beautiful. You are...the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

“John. You don’t have to…say that.” Sherlock felt his face flushing. He wasn’t used to hearing John say things like that. Though, Sherlock realised, he actually had no idea how John behaved in sexual situations. Maybe he always talked to his partners like this. 

“I know I don’t. But you should know how gorgeous you are, how you take my breath away. You should know how badly I want you. I think about it all the time. What you’ll feel like underneath me, on top of me, what you’ll taste like...” John’s voice grew darker with every word, a hot maroon blush creeping up his chest. He lowered his face into Sherlock’s neck, rubbing his lips back and forth. Sherlock could feel John’s eyelashes fluttering across his skin, and with a moan, his head fell backwards. 

John opened his lips, kissing gently across Sherlock’s neck, down to his collarbone, up to the square of his jaw, tongue drawing moist paths on his skin. Sherlock’s arms tightened around John’s neck, holding him close, spiky hair tickling his forearms.

John’s kissing become more heated, small moans escaping both of them, and John began snaking down Sherlock’s torso, his warm mouth never leaving Sherlock’s skin. Sherlock’s hands came to rest on John’s head, just as John tucked his fingers in the waistband of Sherlock’s pants and pulled them down far enough to lick a stripe across Sherlock’s hipbone, and then sank his teeth down hard enough to mark the soft skin. He pressed his lips gently over the ring of teeth marks, and brushed his face across soft belly, repeating the lick, bite, kiss on Sherlock’s other hip. 

“Oh god, John! Wait...wait.” Sherlock couldn’t stop his hips from arching up, couldn’t help the blood rushing to his cock, the primal gasp caught in his throat. Nor the slight panic rising up in him. Sex with Victor had been good, satisfying, physical, hot, but Sherlock had never gotten overwhelmed by it, never felt this, whatever THIS was. This was so different. Because it was John. Because everything with John was heightened, more intense. 

John’s mouth on his skin was like the heat from the sun. It was necessary for life, but it burned, god it burned. He felt like all his breath was caught in his lungs. 

John’s hands slid gently up Sherlock’s thighs and grabbed his hands, knotting their fingers together. He looked up at him, chin on Sherlock’s stomach. “You alright, sweetheart?”

“It’s just...a lot. I’m sorry. It’s you, John. It’s just you, being here, this. It’s incredible. I truly don’t want to stop.” He felt ridiculous. This was all he’d wanted for as long as he could remember; John wanting him, kissing him...and now he couldn’t process. He couldn’t calm his nervous system enough to let it happen.

“It’s okay. Hey, it’s really okay. We can just...come here.” John crawled back up the bed, and laid on his back. Sherlock couldn’t help but notice how hard he was. He closed his eyes, willing himself to stop acting like a sixteen year old.

“Sherlock. Come. Here.” John reached an arm behind his shoulders and tugged, drawing Sherlock into his chest. “This is good, too. This is gorgeous, in fact. I’ll still be here tomorrow night, and the night after that...We don’t have to force it.”

“But you want to.” He sounded like he was pouting. Christ, he really was acting like a teenager. 

“And so do you, rather obviously.” John smirked, and Sherlock rolled his eyes, both of them laughing.

“And we will. But for now, let’s just cuddle up, yeah?” John turned and pressed his lips to Sherlock’s forehead. “I love you and we won’t be apart again. That’s all done now, Sherlock. So, we’ve got plenty of time.”

John wiggled closer to him, turning slightly, so they were almost facing each other. He nuzzled into Sherlock’s face, finding his lips for a slow, tender kiss that went on until Sherlock was practically melting into the mattress. 

“It’s late. Let’s just go to sleep. For the first time, together. Okay?” John whispered against Sherlock’s lips, their noses touching. 

“Dammit. I hate myself when I can’t...do something normal. I had sex with Victor two or three times a day… why can’t I do this with you? I want to so badly.” Sherlock pounded a fist into the mattress.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” John shook his head, and closed his eyes. “Shut it. Just, shut it. I really, REALLY, do not want to hear about you having sex with Victor, okay? That’s the second time you’ve mentioned it, Sherlock. Jesus Christ.”

Sherlock snorted a laugh, dragged a finger down John’s chest to the lovely trail of brown hair below his navel. “It really bothers you, doesn’t it?”

“YES. Of course it does. Why wouldn’t it? I don’t want to think about someone else having you. Christ, Sherlock.” John tucked his face into Sherlock’s, took his top lip in his teeth, and bit down hard, sending a bolt of electricity shivering down Sherlock’s spine. The look in his eyes was commanding, possessive. “You.are.mine.”

“You’re mine, too, but it wouldn’t bother me to hear you talk about sex with other people. I might even like it a bit.” Sherlock grinned at John, teeth caught on his lower lip, swirling his finger in lazy circles on John’s belly.

“Oh, you would, would you?” John kissed his lip where his teeth dug in, then his chin, and the tip of his nose. “Well, too bad. I can’t think about anyone but you. You’re sort of filling up my brain at the moment.”

“Okay, fine. Since you want to be boring about it...I’ll make you give me sordid details one day.” 

“The fuck you will.” John laughed, and twirled his fingers into Sherlock’s hair. “Come here, you brat.”

Sherlock laid his head on John’s chest, listening to the steady thump of John’s heart. Sherlock’s arm twined over John’s waist, and John put one hand against Sherlock’s chest, palm over the scar that neither of them wanted to talk about. John’s fingers rubbed gently back and forth for a moment, and then he let his arm fall to the bed, and he yawned. Sherlock moved down further, so his head was on John’s stomach, his arm across his hips.

“That’s it. Just, let’s be together.” John curled forward, kissed the top of Sherlock’s head and rubbed his nose against the soft curls. “I’ve always wanted to do that. My nose in your hair. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve thought about that.”

Sherlock was buzzing with happiness. He allowed himself to drift off to sleep in John’s strong arms, trying not to think, just to feel. Which was, for Sherlock, still the hardest part.

***

Sherlock woke up wrapped around John like a vine, arms and legs curled around John’s limbs, his face against John’s warm back. He picked his head up to look at the bedside clock. 4:13am. He’d slept two and a half hours. That was about the most he could stay asleep at a stretch.

He dropped his head back onto the pillow, listening to John’s soft snores, watching his shoulders moving up and down with the rhythm of his breathing. Even in the darkened room, the tiny freckles spattered across John’s back were visible, the scar on his shoulder white and glowing in contrast to the normal coloured skin around it. A muscle jumped in his neck and he sighed and rolled his head a bit, causing a ripple of motion from his neck to his back. He stretched his arms out in front of him, one slipping over the edge of the bed, and his shoulder blade jutted out, emphasising every muscle that ran atop it. Sherlock was fascinated. He thought he could lay there and watch the subtle movements in John’s back for hours. 

It seemed like the most natural thing to do, leaning forward, pressing his lips to John’s shoulder blade. How could he not do that, with all that bare John skin in front of him just begging to be touched? His skin was soft and warm against his lips, smooth bone easily felt underneath. He smelled good, like soap and cotton, damp London air and coffee. John shifted, humming contentedly. Sherlock kissed his shoulder again, closed his eyes, just enjoying the feeling of his lips against John’s skin, the smell of him, how John’s body responded to him, even in sleep. Sherlock rubbed his face against John’s spine, trailed his tongue lightly up towards the nape of his neck. John’s soft sleepy hum turned into a moan, back muscles contracting. 

Oh. Body responding to those sounds. Want to make John make that noise again. 

Sherlock allowed his tongue to stray a bit farther than before, licked a wide stripe over John’s vertebrae, up into his hairline. John moaned again, softly, and arched his neck towards Sherlock’s mouth. Open mouth to the taut muscle between shoulder and neck, sucking hard enough to leave a mark, Sherlock closed the already miniscule space between their bodies, pressing his chest against John’s back and wrapping his arm around his waist.

“Oh, Sherlock…” John murmured, still half asleep. He felt drunk with sleepiness, heavy limbed. But, oh, Sherlock’s tongue was swirling over his shoulder and there was the faint throb of a love bite pulsing on his neck, and Sherlock was pressed against him, hard against the back of his thigh. Yes. This. He needed this like air. Something so primal about this, waking up in the dark of night to a hot tongue and a hard body. Just respond. Don’t think.

This this this, reverberated through John’s mind, and he pushed backwards against Sherlock, who uttered a little cry and bit down into John’s shoulder. Oh god, oh god, that was good. A shudder went through him, responding not only to the sensation, but knowing this was Sherlock, his Sherlock, those perfect lips resting against his skin, teeth scraping gently now, curls tickling his ear. Sherlock wanting him, hard for him. 

John groaned, hand reaching back to find Sherlock’s hip, pulling Sherlock closer, so he could feel that hardness pressed up against him. Sherlock was brushing his face against John’s shoulder, barely kissing him, just loose pliant lips all over his skin, warm breath and soft noises. 

“John....” Sherlock’s voice was husky with sleep, and with desire, and just the sound of it sent chills up John’s neck.

“Yeah?” His voice was all breath.

Sherlock didn’t say anything, just fixed his hand on John’s waist and kissed all over his back, with teeth and tongue, nibbling and licking and pressing closed mouth kisses down his spine, until John was writhing and sighing his name. 

He pressed his face against the curve where back meets hip, breathing hard. Voice rough with emotion, he said, “John, I would do anything for you. Anything. You know that, don’t you?”

“Oh, Sherlock.” John flipped slowly over, barely dislodging Sherlock from him, his face slipping over John’s hip to rest on his stomach. A small strong hand closed over the top of his head. “You already have. Remember what you said at the wedding, that I’d saved you so many times, in so many different ways? The same is true for me. You have saved me, so many times, without any thought to yourself. It’s...unfathomable sometimes to me, your selflessness for me. If I didn’t know by know how much you love me, I would be a real bloody idiot.”

Sherlock raised his eyes to John’s, and then John was suddenly hauling him up the bed, crushing their mouths together, messy and wet and hard. Sherlock had never been kissed like this before, like someone needed him. Not sex, not release, but HIM, body and soul. He actually felt tears pricking the back of his eyes, and blinked hard. He absolutely was not going to cry the first time he and John had sex. 

John’s hand was snaking down his stomach. Skin quivering, Sherlock broke the kiss and dropped his face into John’s neck.

“Sherlock? You okay? Tell me if you’re not.” John withdrew his hand, and kissed his shoulder softly, over and over, slow and sweet. 

“I’m okay.” He swallowed, willing himself to not be overwhelmed by emotion, by the desperately wonderful sensation of John’s hands on him. “I want you so badly, god, I’ve never wanted anything more in my life. I want to do...everything. Don’t stop again, please. Just do not stop.”

The pulse of arousal that shuddered through John’s body was so powerful he was sure it was visible from space. Fingers tangling in Sherlock’s sleep-mussed curls, he dragged their faces together. The moment their lips met, John flipped them over - Sherlock was always surprised by how strong John was - and put his thigh in between Sherlock’s legs.. 

He bent over with a wicked smile, hot sleepy breath against Sherlock’s mouth. “I’m not going to stop. I’m going to do this.” Warm mouth to Sherlock’s neck, tongue licking patterns until he reached Sherlock’s earlobe, sucking it between his lips. Sherlock moaned and dug his fingers into John’s back. Oh god, that was liquid fire through his veins.

“And this…” John breathed against Sherlock’s ear, ground his hips forward, his hot, hard cock pushing into Sherlock’s thigh. Sherlock groaned, head falling back, fingernails clawing into John’s skin. His whole body was on fire, nerve endings flashing like lightning, synapses firing far too rapidly. One word running through his mind, like a circuit, johnjohnjohnjohnjohnjohnjohn...the letters visible behind his eyes, the sound of it, and John’s weight on top of him, his mouth, his body. All beautiful and wondrous and almost too much. 

“And this…” The movement of John’s hips didn’t stop as he reached down and palmed Sherlock’s erection through his pants, fingertips curling around his balls and pressing up.

Sherlock cried out, arm flying to the mattress, squeezing his eyes shut, fisting the rumpled sheets. His other hand gripped John’s shoulder, as he pressed his hips up into John’s hand.

“Oh Christ, you’re beautiful, you’re so beautiful, god, I love you…” John murmured, kissing down Sherlock’s neck and across his shoulder. Lips brushing down Sherlock’s arm, to the soft skin on the inside of his wrist. 

It was a slow burn now. Nerves settling, skin beginning to understand this, want this as much as his heart did. Sherlock allowed himself to sink into the bed, muscles relaxing. John felt it, felt him letting go, allowing himself to feel all of this, to be in this moment together. A slow smile spread across John’s face. He turned, his lips having still been at Sherlock’s wrist, and buried his face in his palm. Sherlock’s fingers immediately caressed the side of his face, fingertips tracing down John’s cheek, pressing into his jaw. 

Soft kisses pressed to the inside of his palm, back up his arm. John was taking his time, not wanting to rush Sherlock, to overload him. Nudged into Sherlock’s mouth with his own, tongue between welcoming lips, Sherlock’s hands slid up and down John’s back. 

“And lots of this.” John eased a leg over both of Sherlock’s, hands on either side of his head. He looked down at him, blue eyes nothing but pupils, flush creeping up his neck, and rocked forward, gently brushing their groins together, just lightly. He shuddered from the contact, face falling forward into Sherlock’s neck. 

“Get these off, oh god, get these OFF.” Sherlock pushed John’s pants off with one hand, and his own with the other, John trying to help him, elastic getting caught on bent knees and bony ankles. John started laughing at them struggling, but Sherlock caught his jaw in his hand and dragged John’s face to his own, swallowing John’s laughter in his mouth. 

John caught Sherlock’s lower lip in between his and sucked hard. Sherlock mewled, licking into John’s mouth, pulling at his hair until it hurt. John bent a knee to get some leverage, rolled his hips down, and slid their cocks together, for the first time. John nearly bit Sherlock’s lip bloody, his whole body shaking with the sensation of them, skin to skin, Sherlock pushing up against him, lapping at his mouth hungrily.

John left Sherlock’s mouth, drifting his lips down his neck, nuzzling gently. One hand slid up Sherlock’s arm, pinning it above his head. Sherlock made a plaintive little cry, making John look up at him. Colour had risen in his cheeks, and he was biting his lower lip in a way that sent a tremor of desire through John’s belly. “You like that. Being held down."

“I like it when you do it, John…” Sherlock wound his other hand under John’s, so John had him by both wrists. 

John watched Sherlock’s hand snaking under his, his breath coming harder. “God, that’s fucking hot.”

He ground forward, pressing Sherlock down into the mattress. Sherlock made a noise somewhere between a groan and a whimper, and John felt the tendons in his wrists tighten under his palm. Keeping Sherlock’s hands pinned, he moved down to kiss his chest, licked across to his nipple and swirled his tongue around it until Sherlock was writhing underneath him and had twined one long leg over his back.

Christ, he could hardly breathe. He’d never wanted anyone like this in his life. 

He let Sherlock’s hands free, skidding his palm down his arm, over his ribcage, the soft hollow of his stomach, found his hip, and curled his fingers behind, exploring, seeing what Sherlock would do. 

“Yes, John, yes…” Sherlock panted out, arms now wrapped around John’s neck, twisting short strands of his hair in circles. 

John wasn’t sure how much longer he could hold on. Both of them were slick with sweat and pre come now, slipping against each other beautifully, their bodies fitting together as perfectly as the their minds and hearts always had. 

“I don’t have anything. Is it…?”

“Drawer, drawer…” Sherlock gestured and then yanked at the drawer in the bedside table, pulling the entire thing crooked, the lamp teetering wildly. 

“Oh, fuck.” John laughed again, and reached up to steady the lamp. When he looked back down, Sherlock was beaming at him with bright black eyes, pupils blotting out all the colour. John nudged their noses together, feeling half drunk with love and arousal. “What? What are you smiling at?”

The leg over his back moved idly, heel rubbing into the small of his back. “You. Just, you.”

John hummed happily, and kissed Sherlock slow and soft. He rubbed his thumb over Sherlock’s cheek, just watching him. Sherlock looked up at him from under his eyelashes, eyes on fire. 

“John?”

“Mmmm?” John was moving his hips in slow circles, lost in the feeling of their bare skin and the vision of Sherlock beneath him, beautiful pale skin flushed with desire, swollen red lips, black curls wild against the sheets. 

“Get the damned lube out or I will.” Sherlock stared up at him, eyebrow arched, that half smile John loved playing on his lips. 

“Oh, right, sorry. I got kind of...mesmerised by you.” He sank his lips to Sherlock’s, feeling like he could fall into him, become a part of him, as if he wasn’t already. 

He pulled back, sucking Sherlock’s bottom lip between his own. Sherlock shot him a mischievous look, insinuating a hand in between them, until his fingers found John’s cock, and wrapped around him. John let out a strangled grunt and fell forward, trapping Sherlock’s arm between their stomachs, so he couldn’t move.

“Oh god, Sherlock, oh god...that feels so good." He spoke against Sherlock’s shoulder, still collapsed on top of him.

“It would feel much better if I could move my hand, I assure you.” Sherlock said in his most patronising voice.

John raised his head, and smacked Sherlock on the hip, snickering. “How can you be such an utter arse, even right now? Fuck, Sherlock.”

“That is rather the idea.” Sherlock gave John that genuine grin that crinkled his eyes and lit up his whole face.

“I love you, you idiot. I love you. I love you.” John pushed himself up a little, reached back into the drawer and fished around until he found the bottle. Sherlock started slithering down the bed underneath him, running his hands down his sides. “Where are you goi...OH.”

John had to grab the headboard with both hands to keep from falling over. Sherlock was gripping his hips as he slipped his lips over the head of John’s cock, almost in a kiss. He had to hold back from thrusting forward, the tension from not doing it making his hips shiver. He tightened his knees together, on either side of Sherlock’s ribs, and looked down. 

“Oh god, Sherlock, oh god…” Sherlock was pressed up on one elbow, eyes focused on John’s face, as he wrapped two fingers around the base and slid his mouth down to meet them. John’s entire body contracted, quivering, the heat of Sherlock’s mouth and the sight of those lips around him almost too much.

He clutched at the headboard, white knuckled, groaning, as Sherlock began to work over him in earnest. Bobbing his head, he licked in swirls and flicks, pressing his tongue up hard into the vein, and then licking across the slit almost delicately. John could hardly help his hips pumping, and when Sherlock slipped one hand up to his arse and pushed him forward, giving permission, John let himself go.

“Oh Christ, oh fuck, I’m going to come...this is so good...I can’t…” John’s whole body erupted in goose pimples, muscles shaking, a sweet hot ache flooding through him. He pushed forward until he felt the back of Sherlock’s throat, and the gag that Sherlock almost succeeded in swallowing away. That just about tipped him over the edge, but Sherlock pulled off gently and lay back down on the bed, sliding up through John’s legs.

“I will let you come in my mouth, John. I want you to. But right now I want you inside me. So you’ll have to wait for that another day. Or later this morning...” Sherlock grabbed John, who was still trembling, eyes shut, above him, by the waist, and tugged. “Get down here.”

John let go of the headboard and crawled back down until they were face to face again. He traced Sherlock’s profile with his fingertip. “You are spectacular. I’ve never...that was the best…”

“Blow job?” 

“Yeah.” John breathed out shakily, a little tremor running through him. “That I’ve ever had.”

“Good. I plan to make it even better next time…” Sherlock kissed John softly, the lingering taste of him still on his lips. John sighed and kissed him back, licking himself off Sherlock’s lips, hand wrapped tightly around the back of Sherlock’s neck. He canted his hips forward and they both twisted and moaned. 

“I want you right now. Oh, god, I need you right now. I need you. I need you.” John whispered, brushing his lips over Sherlock’s softly.

The sun was rising. A pink light washed over the bed, making everything glow. Sherlock looked up with wonder at John’s face, illuminated with sunshine, his eyes burning black and intense. “You do need me.”

“Of course I do. Of COURSE I do. Haven’t you figured that out yet?” John murmured, sinking his face into Sherlock’s neck, eyes fluttering shut. “God, I need you like air.”

Sherlock stared for a moment, as John rutted and rolled against him, making soft desperate noises, sucking a love bite on his throat. John needed him. John wasn’t leaving. John would never leave again. He was momentarily reeling from the understanding of it. 

Sherlock tuned back in, head spinning. John was whispering something against his ear. “I love you so much, you beautiful, ridiculous thing. You make me crazy.”

Sherlock took John’s head between his hands, needing their eyes to meet. “You make me better, John Watson. You make me more myself than I am without you.”

John smiled softly. “I know. It’s the same for me.”

They stared into each other’s eyes for moment. Then John moved, and they both shuddered. John reached out a retrieved the bottle of lube from where it had fallen on the pillow, clicked it open, and poured some on his hand. Then he kissed Sherlock slow and sweet, and Sherlock let his leg fall to the side as John reached around and pressed a finger inside him. 

“Oh, Christ, Sherlock. That feels incredible.” John’s face immediately burned red, his neck mottled with purple, as he looked down to watch his finger sliding in and out.

“It feels more incredible to me, trust me, John…” Sherlock gasped out, hardly breathing. “Another.”

John pushed another finger in beside the first, and let out a little moan. He leaned over Sherlock, nosing the love bite he’d left a few minutes before. “I’m going to cover you in these, so everyone knows you’re mine.”

Sherlock shivered, and tilted his head to the side to expose more of his neck. John’s fingers were pumping in and out of him faster, bending and stretching, and his cock was so hard it almost hurt. Then John’s teeth descending on his skin again, and a bead of pre come dripped onto his belly, cock jumping. 

“Oh, John, please, please...I can’t last any longer…” He pulled at John’s wrist, pleading.

“Oh, fuck, me neither.” And with that, John swiftly withdrew his fingers, spread the rest of the lube from his hand over his cock, and climbed in between Sherlock’s legs, kneeling.

“You want me like this, John?” Sherlock shimmied down until the insides of his thighs were squeezing John’s between them, and he could skim his hands up and down John’s chest.

“Well, I want to be able to look at you, yeah...You know I’ve never done this, this way…” John looked a little bashful suddenly, long lashes fluttering as he blinked. 

Sherlock had to hold back a smile. “I’ll show you...Come here.” Sherlock bent his knees, and pulled John forward so his bum was resting on top of John’s thighs. “Now lean forward, that’s it…”

Sherlock pulled at John’s hips, and the tip of John’s cock touched Sherlock. They both shivered. John caught his bottom lip in his teeth and looked down at Sherlock, running a hand over his stomach. He curved forward and brushed his lips against Sherlock’s, whispering a quiet I love you. Sherlock kissed him back, and drew his hips down, pushing John inside. 

“Oh, oh...oh, Sherlock. Oh my god.” Just the idea, the thought, of their bodies meeting like this, of being joined physically, the way they had always been in every other way...it was breathtaking. The sensation of it was overwhelming, the tight heat around him, their skin rubbing, Sherlock’s weight resting against his legs. He’d never felt like this during sex before, like every single cell in his body was responding to the other person, tingling, alive. “Oh fuck, Sherlock. That’s like nothing, nothing, I’ve ever felt before.”

“Better or worse?” Sherlock dropped his voice an octave, tightening his muscles around John, who was already shaking and twitching forward. He ran his hands up John’s back, which was slicked with sweat, and into his damp hair.

John rolled his head against Sherlock’s fingers. “Oh Christ, better, much better…”

Their hands slid together, and John pressed them above Sherlock’s head as his started thrusting forward, gently at first, and then when Sherlock bucked his hips up to meet John’s movements, he went harder and faster. Sherlock thought he’d never seen anything as wondrous as John’s face above him, ocean blue eyes staring down into his, swollen lips parted as he breathed hard through his mouth. 

“Oh Sherlock, I can’t...this feels too good…” John’s shoulders jerked, body contracting, and he pressed a sloppy kiss to Sherlock’s mouth.

“Yeah, oh god, John...come...come inside me. I want it so badly...” Sherlock was right on the edge himself, white lights at the edges of his vision, skin feverish. Waves of hot and cold kept coursing through him.

John let out a long hard breath, eyes falling shut, and went still for just a moment. Then with a low keening sound, he snapped his hips forward hard, fingers tightening around Sherlock’s. “Oh, fuck, fuck, oh god…” 

“That’s it, oh, oh, oh John...I can feel you…” Sherlock’s back arched up, spirals of electricity surging through him, everything tightening. He closed his eyes, head twisting backwards, skin on fire.

“Look at me. Sherlock...sweetheart...look at me. The first time, I want us to be here together.” Gasping out every word, John took one hand from Sherlock’s, and grabbed his chin. 

Sherlock opened his eyes and found John’s. Their eyes meeting was enough to tip them both over, and they came at the same moment. Sherlock curled up, mouthing John’s name, and his freed hand flew up, fingers scratching into John’s shoulders. John rocked his hips forward as hard as he could, his vision going white. John fell over Sherlock, blood flooding back into the rest of his body, listening to Sherlock gasping against his temple.

“I could lay here all day, just feeling you breathe.” He put his hands against Sherlock’s ribcage, feeling it expanding and retracting.

“Oh…” Sherlock could barely get his breath. “That’s a very me thing to say, John.”

John huffed a laugh, tucking his face under Sherlock’s ear, sweaty curls against his forehead. “I guess you’re rubbing off on me.”

“Was that a sex joke, John?” Sherlock ran his hands over John’s heaving back. 

“I think so...I don’t know...I have no idea. That was completely incredible. God, I’ve never had sex like that in my life.” John kissed Sherlock’s neck, and finally rolled off of him. He laid on his back and reached out for Sherlock. “You’re too far.”

“I’m five inches away from you, John.” But he was already rolling to his side.

“Too far.” John dropped an arm behind Sherlock as he curled up against John’s side, all sweaty skin and tangled hair. 

John felt his eyes closing, endorphins making him feel drugged and sleepy. “Let’s do that again later, okay? My god.”

Sherlock smirked a little, tilted his head up to look at John. The sun had risen completely now, and there was a shaft of bright light across John’s face. Sherlock thought for a moment how entirely appropriate that was, John illuminated, shining. His conductor of light. 

“John, I love you.” He kissed John’s chest, wrapped his arms around him as tightly as he could. 

John hummed happily, tousled Sherlock’s hair. “I love you, too.”

“I’m going to go make coffee.”

John opened one eye. “You are?”

“Yes, why not?” 

John closed his eye and shook his head with a little smile, bottom lip jutting out. “No reason. I’m going to shag you like that every morning if it will get me coffee in bed.”

Sherlock grinned, a warmth spreading through his chest that had nothing to do with sex, looking at John laying there. John. Home. With him. In their bed. He couldn’t remember a time when his mind had been quieter. 

He yanked the sheet from under John, earning him a loud 'Oi! I was using that!', wrapped it around himself, and padded into the kitchen, grinning.


	7. Everything Else Can Wait

Sherlock crawled up John’s bare chest, wiping his lip with his knuckles, a wicked smirk on his face. “Good?”

“Oh, my fucking god, yes. That was brilliant...” John panted, head lolling on the back of the couch. “Fuck, you’re going to kill me before the day is over.”

“No, I’m going to make you come as many times as I can before the day is over. No killing involved.” Sherlock threw his long legs over John’s lap, and tucked him back into his pants. His hand snaked up John’s chest, tracing every scar, Sherlock’s head tilted to the side, watching his fingers on John’s skin. 

John loved that expression; Sherlock’s eyes alight, glittering with curiousity. “Come here.” He grabbed Sherlock’s jaw and drew him in for a kiss, running his tongue around the inside of his lips. Sherlock’s hands came skidding up into John’s hair, pulling him closer, John’s hands sliding around his waist, and immediately Sherlock was in his lap, straddling him, kissing down his neck, hot soft lips pulling at his skin, already covered in love bites. Short fingers trailed down Sherlock’s spine, and he shivered and arched. John found his mouth again, winding his fingers into his hair. 

They were transcendent, drunk on each other. Hardly taking their hands off each other all day, giddy with being able to touch each other like this, to love each other fully, finally. Mouths and hands everywhere, unable to stay away for even a few minutes. Neither of them had bothered to put on more than pants since dragging themselves out of bed for showers and coffee. The world was on hold until they’d filled each other up with the kisses and the touches, the moans and sighs and I love you’s that had been repressed for so long. Nothing was important except them, now, together. 

John nipped Sherlock’s bottom lip, and leaned back into the sofa, letting his hands rest on Sherlock’s hips. “God, I don’t know how many more times I can do that today. I’m not 18, love.”

“You didn’t seem to have trouble in the shower, or against the kitchen counter…” Sherlock kissed John’s neck languidly, drew himself off his lap and laid back, throwing his arms above his head.

John laughed, and ran his hand up Sherlock’s bare stomach. He just couldn’t stop touching him, the feeling of their bare skin - so much bare skin - against each other was intoxicating. Sherlock wriggled, sighing, and shifted his hips so his bum was resting against John’s thigh. John ran his fingers back down Sherlock’s belly and down the inside of his thigh. “Are we going for a record here or something?”

“We’re making up for lost time.” Sherlock gazed at John from under half closed eyes. “And I really, really like to watch you come. The way you throw your head back, bite your lip...the way your muscles in your stomach contract...I listened to it for long enough, now I like to see it.”

John shivered, took a ragged breath. “Sorry, what?”

“When you lived here, before.” Sherlock shrugged a little, and bit into his bottom lip. “It’s not a very big flat, John. You had a lot of girlfriends...and you liked to wank in the shower.”

“Are you serious? You listened to me...wanking in the shower?” John dragged a hand over his face, feeling utterly mortified. 

“Well, I didn’t LISTEN, so much as I just HEARD. You’re not very quiet, you know.” 

“Oh my GOD, Sherlock. That’s horribly embarrassing.” 

“Why is it?” Sherlock sat up and brushed his lips over John’s shoulder, hand slipping across his stomach and tucking into the waistband of his pants. “It used to turn me on terribly.”

John whipped his head around and looked at Sherlock, who was now resting his face against John’s arm and looking up at him with wide dark eyes. “It did?”

Sherlock nodded, dragging his lips over John’s bicep while dragging his fingernails over his hip at the same time. “Sometimes, I would have to join you…”

In a flash, John had flipped them and had Sherlock flat on his back. Sherlock’s eyes were big and surprised. “That…” said John, reaching down between them and sliding his fingers into Sherlock’s pants, drifting over his pubic bone, “Is the hottest fucking thing anyone has ever said to me.”

“Evidently.” Sherlock gasped out, moving his hips upward, wanting more than this teasing touch.

“Mmm-hmm. Nope. Not yet.” John kept his touch light, flitting his fingertips through the sparse hair on Sherlock’s lower belly, feeling a hardness beginning against his thigh. “You can wait a little bit. Tell me more. Where did you...join me?”

John moved his own hips forward a little, the tip of his index finger pressing into the soft flesh right above Sherlock’s cock, and Sherlock moaned and shivered, tension building. “Oh god, John. Uh, in my room, usually…”

Lips at Sherlock’s ear, John whispered, “Did you watch me through the door? Tell me the truth.”

John’s fingertips retreated up to Sherlock’s navel, and Sherlock sighed, frustrated. John grinned and tucked his face into his neck, breathing hotly against his skin, not quite kissing him. “Come on, Sherlock...tell me.”

“Sometimes.” Whispering, voice hoarse from desire.

“Oh, my fucking god, Sherlock. That is simultaneously the sexiest and the most infuriating thing. I can’t decide whether to slap you or shag you.”

“Do both.” He ran a hand down John’s side, feeling every muscle and rib, unable to comprehend it was less than twelve hours since they’d been sleeping together. He felt like he already knew every part of John’s body like his own. If he closed his eyes, he could see every hair, every bulge of muscle and hollow of bone, the precise colour of his nipples, of his cock when it was hard. His breathing picked up. 

John bit into Sherlock’s neck, hard enough to make Sherlock arch and jump, crying out an Oh John! “You are such a little liar, Sherlock. All those years of telling me you didn’t feel things that way, that sex and relationships weren’t your area...when you were spying on me in the shower and wanking off in your room.”

Sherlock didn’t answer, but grabbed John’s wrist and tried to force his hand down to touch him. God, he was bursting for it. His whole body was tight like a bowstring, taut and quivering. 

John strained against him, not allowing his hand to be moved. “Mmm-hmm, Sherlock. Not yet. I’m enjoying this.”

“John...this is not fair...” Sherlock ground his hips up, trying to find some kind of relief, but John arched up and Sherlock barely made contact. He growled in frustration. 

John traced the outside of Sherlock’s ear with his fingertip, warm lips against his neck. When he spoke, his voice had an unfamiliar cadence, seductive in a way Sherlock hadn’t heard John before. “Can I watch you?”

“Watch me what?” Sherlock could barely form a thought, all he could feel was John on top of him, mouth against him, all he wanted was John’s hand on him.

John took Sherlock’s hand and slid it down to his erection, eyes dark and heavy. “Watch.you.”

Sherlock jolted with electricity. John wanted to watch him...oh. Well, that was unexpected, but the idea of it, of wanking off while John just watched...Just the idea of it sent a frission of arousal through him that made him visibly shiver. 

“Yeah? You like that idea. Me too.” John was kissing him now, almost frenetic, nibbling, biting, sucking, licking at the hollow above his sternum. “Oh, god, I want to. I want to see you, please, baby.”

Sherlock’s face was on fire. John had turned into a writhing, gasping thing on top of him, his skin flushed hot and red, licking down Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock hadn’t seen him like this before, so turned on, so desperate. Breath coming quick, waves of electricity rolling through him, just from watching John, he slipped his hand under the waistband of his pants and curled his fingers around his aching cock. A little moan escaped him right away, some of the tension that had been building released, and John bit into his neck again. “Oh yeah, that’s it, that’s it…”

John knelt back between Sherlock’s legs, rubbing his palms down the tops of Sherlock’s thighs. His eyes focused on the movement of Sherlock’s hand inside his pants, tongue darting over his lips, his skin flushed. He was already hard again, just watching. He couldn’t believe his hunger for Sherlock, the intensity of his want. He hadn’t even been able to admit these feelings, to own them, until a week ago, and now...now they were superseding any other emotion or thought in his body. Every fibre of his being, soul and body, could focus on nothing but Sherlock. 

He reached up and tucked his fingers into the waistband of Sherlock’s pants, eyes locked on Sherlock’s, and pulled them down enough that he could see, and felt himself leaking already, not twenty minutes after coming, looking at Sherlock’s long pale fingers wrapped around himself, closing the foreskin over the head, and then letting it slip down, thumb rubbing. His hips were already undulating, rolling against the leather of the sofa. Sweat was beading on his upper lip.

“Oh, fuck, fuck, that is so hot. Yeah, baby, do that for me...come on. Show me what you did when you were watching me.” He resumed rubbing Sherlock’s thighs, feeling his muscles tense beneath his palms, as he twisted and moaned, his cock flushed dark red beneath delicate white fingers. 

“Talk to me, John.” Words huffed out between gasps, pulling faster, harder, his head pounded back into the sofa pillow.

John bent forward, mouth against the creamy inside of Sherlock’s knee. He flicked his tongue out, tasting Sherlock’s skin, and his entire leg convulsed, coming to rest behind John’s back, caging him in a the triangle of his legs. “I used to think about you, Sherlock. When I was with my girlfriends. One of them would be going down on me, and I would imagine it was you, your mouth on me, sucking my cock.”

“Oh, John, oh god…” Sherlock’s head was heavy now, full of white noise. His hand slipped faster over the head of his cock, pulling the foreskin over and back, trembling with arousal. He kept trying to open his eyes to look at John, but it was too much, too much input. 

“I did. I always wondered what you would sound like when you came. I thought about that in the shower, touching myself, what you would sound like, how you would look.” John was breathing hard enough now that his words were coming in stutters. He palmed himself through his pants, a hard shiver going through him, his hips darting forward. This was the hottest thing he’d ever done. Because it was Sherlock. Because everything between them was nuclear fission - atoms breaking apart and coming back together, matter itself losing all meaning. 

Sherlock was an absolute mess, writhing against the leather, sweaty, curls plastered across his cheeks and forehead. John had never seen anyone look so beautiful. Whatever he was going to say next caught in his throat. Sherlock was right on the edge, groaning and arching his hips up, fucking into his fist. 

“Sherlock, stop, stop…stop now.” John put a stilling hand on Sherlock’s wrist, voice commanding enough that Sherlock’s eyes snapped open and his hand slowed down.

“Oh, god, you are so fucking gorgeous, and hot, and the sexiest goddamn thing I have ever seen. That was beautiful to watch.” He twirled his fingertips around the inside of Sherlock’s wrist, trailed them down his fingers, still tight around his cock, and wrapped his own hand around Sherlock’s. 

Sherlock made a whining sound, muscles jumping. His hips twitched. “I want to come, John. I’m so close, I want to come, please. Oh, god, I want to.”

“Well, I want you in my mouth.” John began kissing down Sherlock’s thigh, lifting his mouth from his skin only long enough to tug his pants off over his bent knees. He pulled Sherlock’s hand away, nosing into his skin, licking the crease where thigh met hip. “I’ve never done this before...tell me what you want. What do you like? Tell me. I want it to be so good for you.”

Sherlock threaded his fingers into John’s hair, careful not to push him down, even though he was aching to just thrust up into his mouth. John was looking up at him with big dark eyes, blonde lashes so long they almost touched his eyebrows, his mouth beautifully puffy from being almost constantly kissed since the night before. 

“John, you’re so...handsome. You’re so handsome. God, I could look at your face for days.” Sherlock wasn’t used to saying things like that. It was as though his mouth wasn’t used to forming the words; they came out awkward and stiff. But John didn’t seem to notice. Those gorgeous eyes closed slowly, a soft smile touching his lips, and he surged up, putting a hard kiss on Sherlock’s mouth. 

“I feel the same about you. I love you so.” He brushed their noses together, his expression full of desire. “Now tell me how to suck you until you come.”

“Oh, John, Jesus.” Sherlock drew his thumbs down the sides of John’s face. “Well, first you actually have to move down approximately twenty four inches…”

John shook his head and laughed. “You fucking smart arse.”

But he did move, slithering down Sherlock’s chest, all tongue and hands, kneading his sides with strong warm fingers, kissing over his sternum and his navel, until finally he wrapped thumb and index finger around the base of his cock, closed his eyes, and licked a line across the slit. Sherlock bucked and groaned, his fingers pulling at John’s short hair, unable to get a grip. Heat flooded his groin, his thighs, seeing John’s head between his legs. 

John looked up at him. “Tell me, Sherlock. Tell me what you want.”

Sherlock tried to gather his breath enough to speak. “Oh...um...can you just…”

“Don’t tell me you’re feeling shy, Sherlock. We’ve fucked in about twenty different ways in the last twelve hours or so, and in every room in this flat. Shyness isn’t allowed anymore.” He darted that bloody dangerous tongue out again, this time spooning it around the whole head of Sherlock’s cock, and squeezing his fingers together at the base. Sherlock couldn’t help hitching his hips up, whimpering a little. “Tell.me.what.you.like.”

“Um, just...lightly...your mouth, over the top, but just loose...oh fuck, yeah, that’s so good, oh god…” As Sherlock was talking, John lowered his mouth onto Sherlock, careful to keep his lips loose, cheeks blown out, and teeth well away. He touched his tongue to the underside, and Sherlock shoved upward, catching him by surprise. He reared back a little.

“Sorry, sorry...oh god, John...so good…I’m so close...” Sherlock massaged John’s scalp a little, saying sorry and also encouraging him to keep going.

“Oh, I’ll do better than close.” John said with a sly smile, eyes heavy lidded. He descended on Sherlock again, lips loose, licking in light darting movements. When Sherlock started rolling his hips and murmuring John’s name over and over again, John took one saliva soaked finger and slipped it inside Sherlock. 

Sherlock made a sound between a grunt and a whine, clawing at John’s head, and with an Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck, came hard and fast in John’s mouth. He was expecting it, but the actual surge of hot salty fluid, combined with Sherlock’s pumping hips, made him gag. He managed to swallow most of the first rush, but the second, followed quickly by a third, he just couldn’t, and there was suddenly come all over his mouth, his chin, dripping down all over Sherlock. He pulled off, swallowing what he could, licking his lips.

“Sorry...I couldn’t...that was a lot..” He was almost laughing, at himself, fucking up the end of the first blow job he’d ever given. 

Sherlock didn’t respond. He was staring at John, eyes soft and black, breathing raggedly. 

“What?” John knelt up, messily wiped his chin off with his hand, looked around for something better.

“That’s incredibly arousing, seeing my...come...running down your chin.” 

John snapped his head round at the tone in Sherlock’s voice, dark and dangerous. His own cock was throbbing.The look on Sherlock’s face was lethal.

He crawled back up Sherlock’s chest until they were nose to nose. “Yeah? What are you going to do about it?”

There was a beat where Sherlock looked like he didn’t understand what John was suggesting, then his eyes shifted, he smiled knowingly, and he took John’s head between his hands, tilted it up, and licked a wide stripe from John’s throat up to his mouth, catching a drip of come that was sliding over John’s Adam’s apple. They both shuddered. Sherlock licked, over his throat, his chin, his lips, until there was nothing left, and then gave John a look both filthily mischievous and on the verge of giggling. 

“That was really…”

“Dirty.” John arched an eyebrow at him.

Sherlock smirked. “Yes, very.”

John did giggle, then, just for a moment, until Sherlock’s lips were on his, insistent and caressing. They kissed until John couldn’t breathe, and broke apart, pushing up a little. “I guess I should, uh, clean you up, too.”

He started to move down to where Sherlock was sticky, covered in come and saliva, but Sherlock’s hand was suddenly on his erection. “Don’t worry about that, a shower will take care of that. What about this?” He squeezed lightly, and John groaned, pushing into his hand. 

“How are we going to take care of that, mmm?” Sherlock squeezed again, adding a little upstroke, and John’s back and belly flooded with heat. Whatever they did about it, it wouldn’t take long. 

Sherlock moved his lips to John’s ear. “I want you to take me, hard, on the floor, on my hands and knees.”

“Oh, fuck, Sherlock.Yeah, I want that…” The visual of Sherlock on his hands and knees on the floor made his cock jump and his head swim. 

“I’ll be right back.” Sherlock pushed out from under John, and rolled off the sofa, lithe as a cat. John watched him slink back to the bedroom, that long, sinewy body, and shook his head. That infuriating, complex, difficult, miraculous creature belonged to him. He could hardly believe it. 

Sherlock reappeared in the hallway, bottle of lube dangling from his fingers. He tossed it at John, and sank to the floor, scooping forward, arse in the air, rested his cheek on his arms and looked at John. “Coming?”

“I will be soon.” John slipped his pants off and threw them.

Sherlock burst out laughing. “THAT was definitely a sex joke.”

“Yes, it definitely was.” John slid off the sofa, running a hand up the perfect curve of Sherlock’s spine, over shivering skin and undulating muscles. “Christ, you are gorgeous. Look at you.”

He moved around, kneeling between Sherlock’s legs, hand running down the curve of his arse, the backs of his thighs. “Just look at you. How are you mine?”

“John. Come on.” He thumped a fist on the floor and shot John a heated look. 

“Impatient little thing, aren’t you?” John said teasingly. But he dripped lube over himself, and put a flat hand against the small of Sherlock’s back, lining himself up with the other hand. They’d had sex enough in the last day, he didn’t need to use his fingers at all. 

He pushed in, past the slightly loosened ring of muscle, which Sherlock immediately tensed, and gasped. Sherlock’s back curved concave, as John gripped his waist and rocked forward. 

“Oh, fuck. I’m so close already. I won’t last long, baby.” He curled forward, lower belly contracting, tingling.

“Go ahead. I want it hard and fast.”

“Yeah?” John thrust forward once, hard, thighs slapping against Sherlock’s arse as he yanked him backwards. 

“Yeah. Hard.” Sherlock murmured, pushing back and wriggling a little. 

“Oh, god, fuck yes…” He snapped his hips forward again, and again, finding a rhythm now. His head fell back, eyes shutting, ears humming, every sense narrowing down to his hands on Sherlock’s waist, the smack of bare skin, the slide of his cock in and out, Sherlock’s sweet soft moans. 

The tension in him was rising, thighs shaking now, knees scraping against the carpet. Sherlock was arching and stretching in front of him, hands wrapped tightly around the legs of the coffee table, making it shake. John bent over and kissed his back, sliding out of him a little bit, and Sherlock shifted his shoulders, whining in way that made John’s desire spike.

“So hot...you’re so sexy, baby…” John licked paths on Sherlock’s hot skin, gripping him by the hips.

“Harder...please…” Sherlock pushed back into John back muscles tensing, and John nipped at his back, rolling a ripple of skin between his teeth, and leaned up. 

“Like this…” John thrust forward hard, balls slapping against Sherlock’s, and they both groaned deeply. 

“Yeah...like that...oh fuck..” Sherlock was making delicious panting noises now, and John was tipping over, the world going fuzzy and white. He vaguely heard himself shouting ‘fuck, fuck, Sherlock, oh fuck’, but it was distant and foreign. 

When the orgasm finally ended, and it felt like hours, his head was so light he almost felt faint. His limbs were shaking, stomach tight and pulsing. He flopped back against the sofa, and Sherlock let his knees go out of from under him, laying flat on his stomach on the floor, arms folded under his head. They sat there in silence for god knows how long, both exhausted and endorphin wracked. 

“I think that’s all I’ve got in me for a while, Sherlock. Bloody hell.” John finally said, poking Sherlock’s thigh with his toe. 

“Mmmm.” Sherlock nodded his assent. “I’m…satiated. Well satiated.”

“I’m starved. Let’s get showered and dressed. I want pizza. Lots of pizza. With peppers. And onions. Oh fuck, mushrooms. Tons of mushrooms. Pizza Express?” John seemed unable to speak in longer sentences, even though he knew he sounded a bit like a caveman. 

“Mmmm. Yes, pizza.” John smiled to himself. He must have really worn Sherlock out to have him agreeing to pizza. He never agreed to pizza. 

Sherlock rolled across the floor and curled into John’s lap. John dropped a hand to his hair, twirled a curl between two fingers. 

“Will it always be like this, John?”

“Be like what, sweetheart?” 

Sherlock sighed. “Like we can’t get enough of each other? Like we don’t need anyone else?”

John thought for a moment, watching his fingers twisting that smooth black lock of hair. “Sherlock, it’s always been like that. I’ve never needed anyone but you.”

“Nor I, John.” 

“I know, Sherlock. We just got a bit...confused...for a while. But now everything is as it should be.” John looked down at that familiar head of wild hair against his bare thigh, and around at the flat where almost all the important moments of the last six years of his life had happened, and wondered again how he could have thought for even a second that he wanted something else. This was everything he needed or wanted.

“If I’d never left, things would have been so much less complicated.”

“Since when do we do uncomplicated, Sherlock? We’re a disaster, you and I. We couldn’t do simple if our lives depended on it.” John skimmed his hand down Sherlock’s side, savouring the feeling of warm bare skin under his fingers. “We’re just slightly less disastrous when we’re together.”

“Or more so. Things tend to crumble and explode when we’re around.” Sherlock sat up, so they were nose to nose. “I’m not going to be any less of a pain in the arse, you know.”

“No shit. I wouldn’t want you to be.” John rolled his eyes. “Well...maybe a LITTLE less of a pain might be nice.”

Sherlock’s arms slipped around John’s waist and knotted together against his spine. His head came to rest against John’s shoulder. “I don’t want to go out for pizza.”

“Mmmmm. I don’t either anymore.” John buried his face in Sherlock’s hair, and reached behind him to pull the afghan off the sofa. He draped it over them both. “I don’t want to go anywhere.”

Sherlock’s fingers brushed against John’s back. “Tomorrow you’re going to have to go to the vTech offices with me. And play nice with Victor. Can you?”

“I’ll behave, I promise. But for today, let’s just forget anyone else even exists in the world. You’re all I want, Sherlock.” Their lips met, raw and chapped from kissing so much, though neither of them cared about the sting. They kissed and kissed, gentle and slow, the heat between them at bay for now. 

The world would invade tomorrow. There would be exes to contend with, murderers and crimes, and new relationship waters to navigate. There would be the awkwardness of explaining this to their friends, of figuring out this new life they had made together. But for now, this was all they needed. The warmth of each other’s bodies pressed together, in their home, the one they’d made together. 

Eventually John loped into the kitchen to forage for something to eat, and Sherlock slid up onto the sofa, wrapping the afghan around his shoulders and pulling his pants back on. The sun was setting, casting a pink light across the room, as John sat down next to Sherlock with two cups of hot tea. John grabbed Sherlock’s blue dressing gown from a rumpled pile of clothes on the floor and pulled it on. They stretched their legs out next to each other, resting their feet on the coffee table, shoulder to shoulder, and sipped their tea. As the sun drifted lower, and the shadows grew in the room, Sherlock got up and lit the fire. He settled back into the sofa, and John draped himself across his chest, arm over his stomach, humming contentedly. The fire crackled away merrily, and they sat curled together on the sofa until it finally died away into cinders. 

Everything else could wait.


End file.
